Who Will Love Me Now?
by Invader Miraza
Summary: Batman/Joker; Batman - dead. Without him, Gotham and The Joker are lost. There really isn't anything left here, is there? So, what's a clown to do? Time to go out with a bang. Is Bats really dead and gone? Could he, would he save the City, and the Joker? [Written before DKR, possibly AU]
1. Death of a Hero

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. I own nothing! Woe to me.

Slash warning! Turn back now.

--

**Who Will Love Me Now? **

--

Really, it had been like any other normal night in Gotham.

A new vigilante on the loose, the police baffled and useless--the Batman on it's tail. The usual.

Only, it wasn't. It just...wasn't. ..It was raining that night too, he remembered, raining, buckets. Pitter patter, everywhere. Not a drop to drink. The entire City seemed to overflow, water washing off the buildings in sheets. Still, not even the seemingly forgiving rain could cleanse the filth that is Gotham. Not just--the small time criminals, the bosses, the murderers, the incurables--the people as well. The undeserving masses, the civilians. Dirty. Worthless.

The tunnels had been closed off earlier that day. Flood warnings. Lightning cracked the night sky now, crash, boom, shing--all through the night. Pouring down. Oh, it could have been so beautiful. The City could have been washed away. Now, that would have been fun. Thousands and thousands, screaming for the hand of God, pleading, before they're swept away under so many crashing currents. He liked that image. It wasn't fire and kapow, it wasn't -pretty-, like fire, or sparklers, but it was still a pleasant thought. How many of them would cry for The Batman. THAT's what he would really want to see--Batman's -face-. Watching the people of this so beloved city, sucked away. And he couldn't raise a hand to help just -one-. They never deserved to touch him in the first place.

None of them did.

He hadn't seen it happen. But that wasn't the burn of it. He hadn't -known- about it, until so many precious hours after. How -dare- they keep such a thing from HIM. How DARE they think he didn't need to know.

Gloved hands fisted green-greased hair. The roots were -screaming-, the skin was pulled so taut, it was so close to giving way. How could they not tell him. How could they. How could they. How could they. How COULD THEY.

They had played it a hundred times on the news. A thousand, hundred, million times. It had been retold by different people a hundred, thousand, million times too. He had heard it all. Memorized it. It played over, and over, and over in his head. Every single word. Every report. An image had been painted so vividly in his mind, he pulled, ripped, scratched at his head to get it -out-. To make it all go away.

That it was all one big joke.

Why did it have to be raining? He used to like thunderstorms. Like small explosions rumbling through the sky. Now he hated them. He never wanted to see another storm for the rest of his life. Which, at the moment, was very, very likely.

Someone had been kidnapped. Someone that worked for a very important business. Someone that had to be brought back, immediately. Gotham's finest were useless, as usual. So, who else were they to rely on...?

In the corner, a television flickered in the dark. Dark-circled eyes turned to gaze at it. Some anchorwoman. They were searching still. She kept saying--they ALL kept saying it--'No sign' 'no sign' 'no sign'--

The Joker reeled. With a keening growl, he leaned back a bit too far in his chair, and went tumbling to the dusty floor of his temporary base of operations.

He screamed.

Nearby, a considerably jumpy group of Hench-clowns went still. Since their boss had come back, their numbers had decreased considerably in a puddle of blood. No one dared to approach him. They didn't even breathe loudly. The ones with the most seniority stuck close to the doors, just incase. None of them had ever seen him in such a way. He hadn't laughed in hours. Not even when he blew the brains out of half their guys. It was a bad, bad sign.

The Clown Prince of Crime remained where he was. Face down against oil-stained concrete. He wasn't sure when he had stopped making noise...or had he? Was his throat even working. Nothing else seemed to want to. Nothing moved. Nothing hurt, nothing felt. He could only see the flickering, grainy film playing back in his mind.

It was raining.

--

"I need six teams, here, and here--the rest of you, I need a barrier, around the Enterprises building...Maria, how many men are at the penthouse?"

"Six, Jim, though the protectee isn't exactly happy about it."

"Mr. Wayne is going to have to understand it's for his own good. Somehow, I have a feeling Mr. Fox wasn't our..."

Plastic rattled as Commissioner Gordon consulted a thin, patched note inside a clear evidence bag.

"...-Hatter-'s...original target."

He tossed the colorful thing back on the table, among maps, building layouts, blueprints, etc.

Lucius Fox was missing. Upon entering the man's office that morning--seeing as he missed a 9am meeting, and he never does so--Bruce Wayne found a ransom note. From the Mad Hatter.

According to Arkham files, the Hatter was a Jervis Tetch, man arrested and incarcerated ages ago for terrorizing and ransacking the Gotham Yacht Club. He was one of the many never found after the asylum was destroyed. He hadn't really shown up on the radar since. A rather ambitious way to return to headlines. The ransom was fifty-million. In money and silk hats. Size 6/10. Wayne had agreed to the ransom, against the commissioner's wishes.

The young billionaire wanted his employee back.

Gordon adjusted his glassed and stepped away from the table.

"All right. Let's go."

The groups of double-bullet-proofed police filed out of the briefing room. Maria stayed with Gordon, trying to give him a talk-to about the roof positioned teams, when a clad black figure stepped in his path. Four years, and Gordon had never gotten used to seeing him, honestly. He startled him, every time.

"...just a minute, Maria.."

The young police woman stared at Batman--the Commissioner, and obediently left.

"You're never going to listen to me, when I say -not- to come to the station, are you. You're lucky the entire force is after this Hatter."

"Where are your men stationed."

"Ground level, SWAT coming in from the roof--and our four delivery boys."

"I need five minutes."

Gorden heaved a high. Five minutes. Always with the godblessed five minutes.

"The deadline is -set-, you don't have--"

"Five minutes. They won't last. He's a mind manipulator, he'll warp their conscience before they can pull their guns."

"Then how are you--"

"I have my own resources. Five minutes."

Gordon's radio went off. He stared at the Batman. Why did he always have to be in these situations? Why, oh why, was he constantly in this spot. The radio went off again.

"Repeat, Commissioner, we need you, over."

...

Gordon glanced down to take his radio.

"I don't have time for this--if you're going to go, then g--"

He brought the thing to his ear, and looked up.

He was gone.

Figures.

--

"POLICE, HANDS ON YOUR HEADS."

The door lightly tapped against the office walls. Gordon lightly stepped in, gun raised. Men poured in behind him, rifles and pistols at the ready.

The two guards raised their furry heads, one dressed as a brown rabbit, the other as a mouse. They both looked considerably relieved, tied together with dark black wire. Batman. Behind them was a chair, facing away towards a window, seating a very -very- relieved Wayne Enterprises employee. A pair of white bunny ears were tied to his head, a pocket watch set on his knee. Gordon made his way over.

"Mr. Fox, I am commissioner Gordon. You're safe now." He waved over an officer with a ready knife to cut him loose.

"I'm not entirely sure I was in all that much danger, Commissioner. Rather than kill me, he was taken by the thought of a tea party."

Fox lightly rubbed his wrists, watching as another policeman freed his ankles from the legs of the chair.

"Where is he."

"Said he was going to fill the tea pot on the roof." Fox glanced out the window--a storm rocked the building. Lightning clashed, splitting the sky.

"--No...Batman."

"He was here, taking care of those two. Told him where the Hatter was--and raced up himself." Fox gave him something of a funny-like-a-hernia smile, slipping the ears off his head. "Left so fast, didn't think to cut me free. A Bat has to have his priorities."

Gordon glanced upwards, as if his stare could pierce through the walls, straight to Batman and the Hatter. His five minutes were up. They had to catch him, Batman or no. Gordon signaled to his men.

"You three, get Fox out've here--the rest of you--he's on the roof, let's go--"

As he raced out towards the stairwells, and small part of him couldn't help but hope that the Dark Knight had already finished the job. That he could do what he was afraid they couldn't.

Fox stood to watch Gordon hurry out. He understood why Bruce liked Gordon, all of a sudden. Why Batman liked him. One glance, and he knew he was the most incorruptible cop in the entirety of Gotham. At least, he hoped he was. Bruce, Batman, needed that. The City needed that, just as they needed Batman.

Fox turned one last glance towards the window, as a policeman slung a blanket over his shoulders. Irony of ironies, the maniac who kidnapped him had decided to hole up in their smaller--but no less high--Wayne Enterprises building. Their newest business endeavor, right on the water too. Bruce had passed through minutes before the police arrived. Still, something told him it was too long. Something wasn't right.

--

"Okay, everyone--BACK UP--this is a HIGH risk area, hear me?? Back up, come on, BACK UP--"

A VERY drenched, VERY irritable Officer Harvey Bullock was manning traffic control, along with twenty other of Gotham's finest. Fucking rain. It just wouldn't stop pouring--he could barely see through the water, let alone keep a hundred civilians and television news vultures from slipping past him in it.

He didn't deserve this. He was a detective, for fuck's sake. He should be up -there-. Doing his JOB. Not playing water hockey with the masses. Fuck you, Gordon. Fuck you, AND your Batman.

"Detective Bullock!! What's the word on Bruce Wayne, was he the real target?!"

"Detective Bullock, Seen any Batmen lately?!"

"Is the Batman in on his caper, Detective Bullock?!"

Bullock spared a glance upwards at the building. The top was lost in darkness and rain. A flash of lightening occurred, and there--just there--he could see the edge of the roof. They were up there, all right, doing God knows what. It was the Batman's fault anyway. He decides to dress up like a frigging animal and go prancing around like some superhero, and Gotham gets the same whackos in costumes, juuust to pick a fight with him. Bastard. Rat. Bastard.

"Is Gotham's police force really working secretly with the masked rodent?!"

"The Batman: Friend or Foe, Villain or Hero--What's YOUR opinion, Detective?!"

"My opinion?! My opinion is you should back the hell up before I nail you in the b--

"OH MY GOD!!"

"LOOK UP THERE, LOOK--!"

A hundred eyes turned upwards.

The officers soon followed suit, the only movement in the street being the rain, pelting down on a hundred faces.

Bullock turned.

"...can't b..."

--

"--What the--"

"HEY--!"

Fox rushed to the window, hands and forehead pressed against it. The police with him followed, staring open-mouthed at the glass.

"...was that..."

"It was--..."

Fox could only stare. Bruce. Bruce...

"...No."

--

Gordon leaned over the concrete. His hands gripped the lip of the roof so tightly, his fingers cracked. He was just -here-. Right there, where he was standing now. Little red spots littered the roof. Little red dots, running in the rain. The blood didn't belong to Gordon, or any of them. It was -his-. Everything was still. So still, for so many agonizing seconds. There was no rain. There was no lightning. There were no buildings, no cement, no giddy manic laughter floating about behind him, no force, no men, no street, no -Gotham-. It hadn't happened. It wasn't possible. Any moment now, he'd see him--flying back across the sky, against the light-filled city. Any moment now, they would be chasing him again. Any moment now.

Any moment now.

"...issioner."

Any...

"...Commissioner."

Every sense came thundering back, and Gordon faced the young officer addressing him. His eyes were wide. His face was white.

"...what...happened."

The image flashed before his eyes. Batman. The Hatter. This--thing, had rolled out from the maniac's coat--and...boom...

Giggling drew his attention. The policemen holding the Hatter stared between them.

"Twinkle, Twinkle, little Bat...how I wonder what you're at? Up above the WOOORLD you fly...like a tea-tray in the sky!!"

Gordon was on him immediately, taking him by his colored lapels, lifting him into the air, his large hat falling to the side.

"What did you DO?!"

"He--ha-ha--wasn't invited to the party! Very rude you know--inviting yourself, when you're not invited!! Now, please, let me retrieve my hat--it's my -favorite-!!"

The other officers had to pry Gordon off him. Many of them were still in a state of shock.

The younger one idled by the edge of the roof, staring down, down, down into the water front. Countless people lined the street. No one moved. No one breathed. He looked over the red stained edge and swallowed.

...he couldn't possibly be dead..could he?

--

"…he..was..._**mine**_..."

--

Only a taste of the Joker? Oho, think again.

Next time: Arkham Asylum - Even Though You Know Your Heart Is Breaking, Laugh, Clown. Laugh.

R&R, my lovelies!!


	2. Laugh, Pagliaccio!

Thank you for my fabulous reviews!! That's what keeps me going, dollbabies. :D

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. I own nothing! But imagine if I DID…

Slash warning! Lose all hope, all ye who enter here.

--

**Chapter 2: Laugh, Pagliaccio, so the crowd will cheer!**

--

Fish.

Brightly swimming colored fish. Swimming out, swimming in--darting behind coral formations. All is peaceful, all is fine.

An anemone sways in the current, tiny orange fish hiding amongst it's tendrils. Bright yellow trigger fish flutter by, then a school of tiny silver waifs, glittering in the ocean light. Shrimp and tiny hermit crabs go scuttling across the sandy ocean floor, nipping krill and the like out of the clear blue water. Tiger fish. Rock fish. Resting comfortably near a coral ridge, serene. Calming. Sea cucumbers shining the sun back to the surface. Sponges, housing tiny defenseless little creatures.

It's a pity, in all this sweet, sweet serenity…no one thought to look towards the drop-off. If they had, someone would have seen the school of barracuda floating there. There went the bright yellow trigger fish. The silver schools, the shrimp-- op, no more shrimp and tiger fish.

Pieces of fin and scale floated around the now blotchy, reddened water. A fish head drifted gently towards the sandy floor, only to be snatched by the mouth of an eel. A tiny black fish watched nearby, horrorstricken at the slaughter of the coral reef. Unable to save. Unable to lift a fin to help. Somewhere, a clownfish was laughing his painted head off. Just who gave the barracudas directions in the first place?

All this, and more, painted on the ceiling of his dark, dark cell. Yesterday, it was a South American jungle. Something with bears, he didn't really remember. He -thought- it had been yesterday…maybe it was the day before. Maybe it was Tuesday. Oh, well. But more often than not, it was Batman.

There wasn't much to do in Solitary. No lights, no bed, no food. The Joker found it exceedingly boring. So, while he laid, staring at the ceiling, his legs flush to the wall…simple, delightful daydreams kept him busy. He was still giggling at the lax-faced black fish, lifted a foot from the wall and poked it's side.

The Joker was decidedly not staying in Arkham much longer this time. The joke had grown stale. He wanted to play a new game, and he wanted his playmate. He watched the black fish flutter around, looking for the clown fish…it'd be fun to have him in a bowl, all to himself. With a bitty cave to hide in.

The Joker made a note. Pet Store. Little black fish.

He was going to name him Battykins. The thought made him laugh.

There was a clang, and the room was filled with white. His painting faded away, burned up. The Joker arched his neck and looked towards the door, still in throngs of giggling. Two figures stood in the door, silhouetted against the light.

"Good morning, Joker. How are you feeling?"

"Splendifferous, Doc. Is it chili day in the cafeteria yet? Can't miss my weekly heart attack." He smiled at their upside-down forms. The Doctor sighed.

"You can come out of Solitary now, if you think you can behave…"

The Joker shrugged, his shoulders tight inside his straight-jacket. As inconvenient as it was, he sort've liked the thing. It squeezed places uncomfortably, pinching broken bones, cuts and bruises. Cuts and bruises the Bat had given him. Light reminders. He was always there. Always.

His lips smacked as he opened them.

"Ahm….sure. I can do that. Doc." Who knew he would have gotten into so much trouble, just for cutting off an inmate's finger with plastic craft scissors..?

"Mm. We'll be keeping a very close eye on you for the next few days." The doctor motioned for the orderly with him to get the Joker to his feet.

The clown merely smiled. He didn't like the man's glasses. Those black chic frames, with lenses too small for his eye shape. He thought briefly on jamming the earpiece into his ear. Then it really WOULD be an earpiece.

As he was led down the hall, The Joker mused on his latest escape route. After 27 consecutive break-outs, you'd think these yahoos would wise up, and keep him bricked inside a cell.

Not really.

He didn't think about it all that much. He only knew he was going to leave soon.

The thought made him tingle. Leaving meant Gotham. Gotham meant chaos. And chaos…led to Batman. It all comes down to Batman.

There was a skip in his step.

Laughing it all away.

They turned the corner, and stepped into the rec room. The Joker glances over the place as the Orderly unbuckled his straight jacket…every single person was crowded in one corner, a flicking blue light shining from inside their cluster.

"Hey…hey! What's everybody doing over there--?"

The Orderly moved forward--only to be snatched back by the clown. The Joker slipped his straightjacket down his arms, took hold of the now half inside-out sleeves, and hooked the thing around the orderly's neck.

He sighed as the man took a minute or two to die. As much as he -liked- to have watched his face, the Joker was in a -hurry-. The body slumped to the floor. He took a moment to stare down at him, and the pale dimming eyes, before swiping a ring of keys off him, and going to one of the game cabinets. While he was ripping boxes all to hell, stealing anything sharp, pointy--or shiny--he could get his hands on, he noticed the murmuring coming from the television corner.

More specifically, he noticed the word, 'Batman.'

Suddenly, that was far more important than any ill-conceived escape attempt. The Joker marched over, and started shoving people out of his way.

"--Wait your -turn-, Joker."

The Joker side-glanced the rather skinny, emaciated man next to him. He was looking rather pleased with himself. Not that he had paid much attention to any of the people in Arkham, he was sure he had seen him somewhere before.

"Ah, this would be why…I don't follow rules. Someone…mentioned the Bat. Man."

"…You haven't -heard-?"

The Joker tilted his head lightly. The Batman? Something he didn't know? Something had happened? What hadn't he heard about. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, as his hands clenched, teeth ground. These -things- had heard something about Bats that he -hadn't-.

Crane smiled. Since coming to Arkham as a patient, he found the Joker a fascinating individual. He was envious of the doctors here that were allowed to have him in session, to pick his brain. Oh, what a joy he would have been to have…and as he watched him now, his--desperate fixation on Batman. So many puzzle pieces. So little time.

"You've been in the hole, haven't you."

Crane never had the chance to defend himself. The Joker had snatched him by the neck, and held a sharp-tipped compass to his eye. He let a soft whining yell, staring at the silver point in apprehension. Oh, a puzzle indeed--what a mind, what a mind!! What he wouldn't give for his fear gas, right at this moment!

The Joker licked his lips, eyes narrowed calmly into the face of the Scarecrow. It finally clicked in his brain where he had seen him, watching the reports on Gotham what felt so long ago. But that didn't matter right now.

"..you…are going to tell me…what, I, ah…haven't -heard-…about the Bat. Man."

Crane choked a little, hands desperately holding the wrists of the Clown.

"It's--really very devastating--for Gotham, that is--though, with the way you, uhm--act--it might do just as much damage to you --"

The hand tightened around his neck, and the compass came all the closer to his iris.

"Augh--You'll understand! Why--I'm reluctant to TELL you…and--ckkh--seeing as I'm the per..son in your immediate company…not telling you m-might keep me alive longer…"

The point dug into the tender skin around his eye. Crane wailed, the sharp metal cutting through the thin fold of flesh, and scratching the side of his eyeball.

"--ALL RIGHT!! ALL--ALL RIGHT."

The penetration stopped, momentarily. The Joker gazed at him expectantly.

"You were saying."

Crane panted, caught in pain, adjusting his grip on the arm holding his neck.

"…The Batman was on the prowl last night. Some higher up was kidnapped from Wayne Enterprises. They've been playing it all night, every hour, over and over."

Crane's eyes darted towards the television, blocked by another row of patients. An unpleasant feeling rose from the Joker's toenails to his hair follicles. What was it. What WAS it.

"…The Batman. Is dead."

"….what was that."

Crane spared a look at the Joker again, and suddenly went cold. It was time to flee. No one in this room was safe. No one in the building was safe. He look towards the television again, and recognized the popping snowy-like roar of the recorded rain. He had watched the report a thousand times, he had memorized the odd voices here and there, of the people who -saw- it happen. This was his only chance.

Crane freed one of his arms and pointed.

"Look. Look, look--they're playing it again--see? Someone recorded it--!"

As the compass was removed from him, the skin wetly snapping back against his eye, and the hand left his throat, Crane nearly ran to the door of the rec room. He heard the orderlies, security guards and doctors running down the hall already.

He spared another look at the Joker, shoving his way to the television, stilling to watch it.

They wouldn't have a chance.

He stared holes into the back of his head, aching to read it, to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. To taste his fear.

The Scarecrow turned and fled.

Another day, perhaps. Right now, he needed to get out of there.

If there were -any- survivors…he would be pleasantly surprised.

--

Gordon paced back and forth behind a two-way mirror.

He hadn't eaten.

He hadn't slept.

He hadn't the heart to go home, either. To tell his son, his hero was gone. He hoped to God he was in bed. That he hadn't seen the news. That he could be happy, for just a few more hours.

He glanced behind him. Half the force was in this room, crammed into one of the corners, waiting to hear something, anything. Anything that would give them closure. Bullock stood near him. He had been silent since they had brought in the Hatter. Gordon knew. He had seen it happen too.

When he had come back, Gordon had to write up the report. He had to write details. Put it on paper…that he had seen Batman die. In the other room, the television was blasting. The rest of the force were searching news channels to see if there was any sign, anything new. There were no other news. There was only Batman. Dead or alive. The whole of Gotham was holding their breath. 12 hours. It had only been 12 hours, there was still hope. There was still a chance, he might rise from the abyss again.

Sometimes, he felt so alone in this City. He was the only one who was fighting for Gotham's happiness. The only one, who wanted peace here. Then, there was Batman. A lunatic in his own right, but just what Gotham needed. People believed in him. Gordon believed in him. He was the only one who truly knew what he was. He was a hero. A true, honest to goodness hero. And now, he was gone. And he was alone again.

Maria was in with the Hatter. When he wasn't going on about croquette, all he did was talk in rhyme. Halfway through 'You Are Old, Father William', Gordon had to be restrained by Bullock to keep from going in there and pummeling him.

They had found a thousand things on him. Nanobots, microchips, small but ridiculously powerful bombs--his entire hat seemed to be some sort of mechanical arsenal, equipped with small pistols, packets of sleeping gas, and more nanobots. Jervis Tetch was a mad genius. Emphasis on mad.

"Mr. Tetch, do you know what -day- this is?" Maria had switched tactics. They had to understand just how out of touch he was, before they asked anymore questions.

"Today? Today? Why, today is my very merry Unbirthday!"

"The -date-, Mr. Tetch. What is today's date."

"Date, date? Oh, I like dates. Go very well with tea. I do believe it's tea time already."

"Tea time, Mr. Tetch?"

"Oh, yes! Ever since I performed for the Queen, and she screamed at me, "HE'S MURDERING THE TIME, OFF WITH HIS HEAD", time won't do a thing I ask. It's always 3 o'clock now."

"Mr. Tetch. What did you do to Batman."

"Batman? Ohoho--heeha! Batman! In a changing world, in a world of glee, in a world of near insanity, you must guard against a catastrophe, have yourself a cup of tea!"

Bullock slammed his fist on the steel table, causing Gordon's coffee cup to shake.

"We ain't getting NOWHERE with this guy."

"He won't tell us anything--not about the kidnapping, Fox or Bruce Wayne--…and not Batman."

"I bet he did somethin' screwy to him. Didn't the Bat tell you he had some mind shit, or something?"

"That's what the boys in the lab told me too--half the nano-technology Tetch carried with him are mind-altering machines. It's possible he attacked him with one of those--maybe Batman's…resources just weren't good enough…"

A heavy silence set in, while the Hatter rattled on behind the glass. Everyone on the force felt it. Emptiness. Hopelessness. No one had bested the Batman yet. Not even the Jo--

Commotion broke out in the next room over.

"…What in all hell?"

"Bullock, see what it is."

Bullock strode to the door, and just as he reached for the handle, it burst open, six officers rushing in, the others yelling in the background.

"COMMISSIONER!"

"--What? What is it, what??" Gordon's heart leapt into his throat. "Batman? Did they find him??"

"N-no, sir--"

"It's Arkham--!"

"Arkham?!" Bullocks hurried from the door. "What about Arkham--?!"

"I-It's…The Joker, sir. He's escaped."

Gordon blanched.

He shoved passed all the officers and ran into the room, where the television was blaring.

"…oday at Arkham Asylum. 67 people have been reported dead--the number of bodies is steadily rising--, and 191 have been found gravely injured, so far. Officials are saying the incident was caused by Gotham's most wanted, The Joker. More on this story as it unfolds--and I'm certain the entire City is in agreement, that now, more than ever, we need you, Batman. I'm Carol Jennings, Channel 7 news. Back to Ian Urias at the water front, Wayne Enterprises, Ian?"

"…Bullock…take a team to Arkham…round up as many men as you can…I want the last person he talked to, the last person who SAW him. I don't care if they're in ICU, get me IN there."

"All right--you heard him, come on--"

"Dawlings!"

A red-haired officer came trotting over.

"Get Maria out of there. I want Tetch in holding--no less than eight people, guarding him, at all times."

"Eight people--Commissioner?"

"Trust me."

Gordon spared another glance at the television as Dawlings ran off. Something, deep in his gut told him…the Joker was an unhappy fellow, right about now. And he was going to want the man responsible.

--

Another loud clang shook the dwindling group of hench-clowns. They had been told to stay, right there, until the boss had come back. He had been locked behind that plain metal door for hours. He had just turned off the TV, lined them all up, and disappeared. Some of them mused on if he was planning to kill the lot of them. Some of them wondered if he was trying to kill himself. Others just wished he would come back, and tell them to do something, anything, anything but stand there and listen to him do God-knows-what behind a door full of methane, nitro, and gasoline tanks.

Suddenly, everything went still. The distinct sound of a record needle scratched, and they all listened in unparalleled anticipation, for the familiar clicks of the closed door.

_"Vesti la giubba,_

_e la faccia infarina."_

It began in the middle of the tenor aria. He had stolen it, because of the clown on the cover. He had painted a smile on his sad face. He wanted to know why he was so, so very sad...so, he played the record. Just to know why. The Joker slid to the ground, next to the file cabinet that held his recently swiped record player. Pawn shops were some of his favorite raids. They had -things-. Not just superficial expensive stuff, but -things-.

_"La gente paga, e rider vuole qua._

_E se Arlecchin t'invola Colombina--"_

He tore the record packaging apart. How was anyone supposed to understand, when he was speaking another language. His make-up dripped in grayish, reddish gloopy drops off his face. Irritated, he vigorously rubbed his face on his arm. The water just wouldn't -stop- coming. It was like the rain, it wouldn't stop pouring--he would cut out his eyes if he had to, to make it stop.

As the cardboard went flying, a small leaflet floated to the ground. The Joker snatched it up. Italian-to-English translation.

_"Ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudirà!_

_Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto_

_in una smorfia il singhiozzo e 'l dolor, Ah!"_

Laugh, Pagliaccio, so the crowd will cheer! Turn your distress and tears into jest, your pain and sobbing into a funny face.

"...laugh...into...a...funny face. A -funny- face. Funny. Face." He flitted his hand a few times. Funny-face. That was a pet name, wasn't it?

_"Ridi, Pagliaccio,_

_sul tuo amore infranto!_

_Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il_--VVVVVVVVVVVVVVHHHTTT!!"

A gloved hand snatched the record off the player. The Joker was hanging off the file cabinet, screaming nonsensically at the vinyl thing, smashing it into oblivion. Laying crumpled at his ankle was the rest of the translation.

Laugh, Pagliaccio, at your broken love! Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart!

He slid back down again, panting, his cheek pressed against the cold, green-colored drawers. He still held a spiral of the record in his hand. He turned, pressing his spine against the file cabinet and tossed it away.

One of the shadows, from the glowing reddish lamp in the corner. ...it looked like bat ears.

He hit his head against the cabinet.

Oh, he remembered that feeling--it was weaker, so much weaker, barely the same intensity, it didn't nearly hurt as good--...

He did it again. Harder.

He was back in the interrogation room. His head, pressed against the recently broken glass. Oh, what decadence--

Over and over, he smashed the back of his head against the metal file cabinet. The record player idled dangerously on the corner of the cabinet. Dark purple, black and green splotches danced before his eyes...he was almost there...back in that fluorescent white room...with -him-...

His sight returned to him all too quickly. The Joker heaved a sigh.

If he couldn't find anything -nice- to listen to, he wasn't going to work on this at all.

There were two other records laying by his arm. Someone named Ted Waring. He'd try him first. He roughly wiped his face again--maybe if he cut out the corners of his eyes, it would stop. That should work, since it seemed to be coming from -there-.

The Joker gripped the top of the metal thing, and pulled himself up. For some reason, his legs were trying not to work. He yanked the record out of it's sleeve, and tossed it away. Idly licking his lips, he put the record on the still spinning table, tossed the needle down in a random place, and dropped loudly to the floor again.

_"--amer and Lover are always in tears_

_The Clown spreads sunshine around_

_The life with a smile is the life worthwhile_

_The Clown till the curtain comes down."_

The Joker murmured along with the melody. He liked it better than the Italian fellow. He was much cheerier.

Life with a smile is the life worthwhile. How sweet. He liked that. A lot. The Joker glanced upwards at the shadowed ceiling. All the saaad, sad faces of Gotham...the weeping, reddening eyes. They shunned him, hunted him, just as vigorously as they hunted himself. They were liars. Liars. If they weren't sad about it, they should be smiling.

The corners of his scarred mouth turned slowly upwards.

He would -make- them smile.

The Clown crawled unsteadily across the room, to the table he had been working at earlier. He grabbed one or twenty wires, frames, fuses and doodads, and started to work on something new.

One last number, before the curtain falls. Before the Joker took his final bow.

For his Batman.

He was going to make honest people out of Gotham.

That was what his Dark Knight had wanted, wasn't it? He wiped his wet nose. Honest, true, good people. He would do it. For him. he would -make- them that way. And everyone would have a smile on their face...

_"Even though you're only make believing_

_Laugh, Clown, laugh!"_

The Joker stood, grinning, wandering over to the corner where a number of unmarked tanks were standing up straight.

_"Even though something inside is grieving,_

_Laugh, Clown, laugh!"_

He kicked one of the tanks over, and sent it rolling into his table. Things crashed to the ground.

And he laughed. It hurt. It hurt, and it hurt so, so good. He couldn't stop, either, standing before his table, connecting wires, writing out formulas he didn't know he knew how to understand, his hands, his arms, his chest, head, legs, all shaking, trembling--uncontrollable unfathomable empty mirth rushing through him.

_"You're supposed to brighten up a place_

_And laugh, Clown, laugh!"_

_Sparks here--a cloud of smoke there--_

_"Paint a lot of smiles around your face_

_And laugh, Clown, don't frown!"_

Inane giggling, followed by a loud crash of metal scraps.

The door finally slammed open. The hench-clowns stared, their boss sidling up to them, handing them a long, scratchy list.

He wouldn't stop laughing. Not even long enough to tell them to leave. They slowly backed away, watching him as he crumpled to the ground, cackling to the sky, holding his stomach, heaving, as his record played behind him.

It was time to play.

_"Dressed in your best coloured humour_

_Be a pallietto and laugh, Clown, laugh!"_

--

He's finally lost it.

Next time: Would you like to see a magic trick? The case of the disappearing Bat.

R&R PLEASE! I do so love you all.


	3. Gotham's Mourning Glory

THANK YOU, MY FANTASTICAL REVIEWERS!! I am touched. You're the reasons why fics stay alive!! I never expected such a turn out…really. Thank you.

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. I own nada, and if you sued me, all you'd get is pocket lint. And a golf-club. Please don't take my golf-club.

Do I need to say it? Slash ahoy!

--

**Chapter 3: Gotham's Mourning Glory **

--

It was dawn.

Purple, pink, blue and oranges--they shined on the bright silver-faces of Gotham's buildings. The sky was still deep with the blue of a very dark, cry-filled night. And here, began a new day. The rising sun would soon dry the wet streets, clearing all evidence of the storms that rocked it's foundation the night before. All will be cool, cool, calm crisp morning. It was cruel of nature to do so, giving Gotham such a bright and hopeful day.

Those just awakening that morning, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the remnants of a particularly nice dream itching in the backs of their skulls. Showered, fresh, looking ahead for a new day, a new job, a new raise, the first day at school. Eating their simple and nutritious breakfast, little teeny-weeny children watching mom flip eggs in the frying pan. Teenagers, passing around the cold pizza, sipping on brewskies on the front lawn of someone's house they don't know. Some stopping in for their morning coffee at the local café. Munching a stucco-and-cardboard tasting power bar on their way to work…

And the television is turned on.

The News begins.

'Batman is Dead.'

So shine on, mother nature, and create them a wondrous day, free of clouds and disaster. Gotham turns a blind eye.

Somewhere, in this fine, fine city, right at this moment, a taintless detective was painfully recounting the night before on paper.

Somewhere, in this fine, fine city, right at this moment, a laughing clown was being led from a small padded cell to the activity room in Arkham.

And somewhere…in the bowels of this jungle of steel, in the--abysmal muck that is the wastelands of Gotham…

There was a someone who wasn't a someone crawling, through the grime and salt, bleeding, strangely broken, hanging on by a spider's thread to…something he did not know he was hanging onto.

The will to keep clawing at the earth, to return to solidity, above the waves and currents, what was he crawling for? What did he need to save? Something needed to be protected, and cared for. It wasn't there anymore.

A back pressed against soft, grainy movable ground. He was suffocating, ripping off what was hugging, strangling his body, tossing it back into the dark he came from. Was there something to look for. Was there something to find. Why did he have the drive to keep going, keep moving, remain between the hard place, and….what hard place. And what.

What, what what.

It was right there, right on the periphery, -something- was there, staring at him.

It was gone now.

It was cold.

--

"…What are we going to do about this. The office. Meetings--personal galas."

"I called this morning, and told them he was having me stay here until all this business is cleared up. I gave notice we might leave the country, on account of personal safety. I've cancelled everything, and closed down the building. They've told everyone to go home."

"…That should…work well enough, for the time being…"

"…I think we should turn off the news. Get some sl--"

"Are you interested in anything to eat? I'm sure, this, uh…whole thing was very, very stressful…"

"…No. No, I'm fine. Thank you, Alfred."

"…I'll make some tea."

Lucius Fox turned his eyes out the window. Early afternoon. An entire night spent at a police station, only to show up on the doorstep of Bruce Wayne's penthouse, face to face with...a red-eyed butler. He had been watching the news, since Bruce had left that evening.

He had gone through what he had seen a dozen times at the station, and to Gordon himself. Fox could still see it in his mind's eye, out that water-soaked window. It was only a second.

One precious second.

--

_"--What the--"_

_"HEY--!"_

_Mounds of black fabric, flipping over a double-crested head. A single strike of lightning, illuminating the all too-dark body--_

_It didn't move. It only fell. _

"…_No."_

--

Fox pinched his eyes shut. He had recounted everything once more, to Alfred. And now, he couldn't get the image out of his eyes.

Bruce.

He couldn't believe, after -everything-, that the young man was gone. Personally, he thought the whole of Gotham was throwing around the word 'dead' all too soon. When Alfred had opened the door to the flat, he half expected to find Bruce standing there, riddled with bruises, fending off accusations and dishing out snark. As usual.

Then again…he could very well be in the midst of the greatest denial this fair City had ever seen. No one wanted to believe he was gone. The fact remained…that he was.

"…The Commissioner mentioned he might drop by again, this evening. Routine follow-up, and other such."

"You should make yourself scarce, don't you think? Seeing as you're supposed to be staying with young Master Wayne."

"Therein lies the problem, Alfred. If he's coming to talk to -me-, he's coming to talk to Bruce."

"And if -you're- not around, -he's- not around, and Gotham's finest gets their knickers in a twist…"

Alfred returned, carrying a tray loaded with various tea things. Fox eyed the tray, something melancholy pulling at the back of his heart. He would never look at a tea the same way again. Hours upon hours with the Hatter, anyone would develop and aversion to it…

"Exactly…my only thought is Mr. Wayne conveniently stepped out, while the police make their visit…"

"It's as good as any plan, I suppose."

Silence wrapped the two aging men. The only sounds coming from the half-volume news channel, and the light clinking of Alfred's tea-making.

What else was there to say? To do for each other, even? No level of comfort could lift the pain away. Amicable company was the best they could get.

They both felt the same amount of responsibility, guilt and overwhelming loss. The City lost Batman. Lucius and Alfred lost Bruce Wayne.

Fox felt for Alfred far more than himself. The man who raised him, was the father that he lost. On some level, he even felt more responsible than the trusty butler. It was -he- who Batman had come to save.

"…I really do think we should try and sleep, for a few hours at lea--"

One of the teacups flew to the ground, shattering on the shining black tile. Fox turned a frown to Alfred. The man's face was still in silent horror.

"…Alfred? What, what is--"

"Oh, my God…"

He was staring at the television. Fox turned.

It was the policemen at the water front, at the building--the camera work was shaky, as the news crew tried to rush in for the kill. There was something dark, clutched in one of the younger officer's hands.

He snatched the remote off the side of the couch and turned the sound up as far as it could go.

"…oments ago--One of the officers pulled it from the water--we were only able to see a glance at it before--! Officer! Officer, here! Hey!"

There were throngs of them now, cameras, reporters, all fighting to get near what they had found.

It was all these two men needed, however. That one small tiny glance. And they -knew-.

Batman's cowl.

The search was going to end.

--

It was a strange material. Hard, yet pliable--the tips of the 'ear's were rather sharp, and it surprised him. It was eerie. Looking at it this way. Where the--angry creases and intimidating scowl looked so alive and real on the man…on the mask…it seemed empty. And cold.

Commissioner Gordon turned the cowl over in his hands. The right side had almost been completely torn off, the jagged fibers flaking off onto the files on his desk.

He wondered where he'd -gotten- it. How someone could have something like this -made-.

It filled him with an insatiable curiosity…as well as unfathomable sadness. It was as well as finding a body. The poor broken thing looked as if it had been bashed off the head of the owner. Blown off.

He fiercely bit the inside of his mouth. His eyes closed, he felt them stinging, with anger.

-Blown- off.

It was the gust. The force of it--the shrapnel--who knows what the maniac had packed into that…_teapot_…

Gordon had been sitting there, for hours. He still hadn't gone home. His wife had called. Their son didn't have school. None of the schools were open, all over the City. Businesses were closed. The City was in mourning. In mourning--for someone they -hated- no less. How many times a day, was he defending the name of Batman? Projecting lies, because the Hero needed to be what Gotham needed him to be. Ungrateful--spiteful--until the moment he turns up -dead-.

He wasn't quite as upset about that as he was about the fact…Batman didn't -know-. He would never know just how much this City had secretly loved him. How much they did need him. How much they deserved him.

He could hear them--the force, talking outside, abuzz with the finding of the cowl. They hadn't released anything official to the press yet--and kept them from running the tapes they'd sneaked earlier at the waterfront.

Even the news vultures had respect for him.

It only hurt more.

He sighed. Gordon placed the cowl on his desk, the dark, empty face staring up at him. It wasn't fair to Gotham. They couldn't keep this from them. But--it was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. If they released this to the public--officially--it would be killing the last hope.

But they couldn't keep this up anymore. The men down at the waterfront, he -needed- them--The Joker was out, and he was angry. Angry men do very, very foolish things. He needed his force. He needed their spirit. Without Batman, they had to lead this City.

He knew what had to be done.

Gordon lightly pressed a button on his phone intercom.

"Bullock."

A moment later, the Detective stepped in, a few files in his hands.

"Jim--I got the guys you wanted--The Clown's doctors, and the last guy to talk to him on the security tapes before he went ballistic." He tossed the files down, carefully missing the cowl.

Gordon flipped the top one open.

"…Jonathan _Crane_? The Scarecrow?"

"Yeah. Joker nearly sliced his eye out've his face."

"Where is he."

"Saint Mary's Hospital. Gotta few broken bones."

"He was lucky."

Over two-hundred dead. 300 injured. Doctor Crane was an extremely lucky man…or a very smart man.

"…Bullock, I've come to a decision." He let the file close, and removed his glasses with a sigh. "I...need you to call the mayor. I'm going to give an official statement to the press, alerting the public we found…"

He lightly gestured the cowl.

"…And that we're calling off the search. Suggest to the mayor we have a...memorial service. I think we should. Gotham would agree with me. All of our resources need to go to finding the Joker, we can't keep this up--"

"So we're givin' up?? Just like that, on the Bat?! Jim, of ALL the people, I would-a thought YOU at least--"

"People are DEAD, Harvey!!" Gordon was on his feet, leaning over his desk, glasses forgotten on the floor. "And there are going to be MORE of them, LOTS more! Batman would want us to STOP it! You know he would! I can't do this -alone-, Harvey--for Godsakes…Look at me…this isn't…easy…"

Silence stood between them. Bullock did understand, he didn't want to, but he did. A part of him would hate Jim for doing it. But he knew a part of Jim hated himself for doing it too.

"…I'll call the mayor."

"…Thank you, Harvey…"

The door closed behind Bullock with a click. Gordon returned to his seat, and stared at the cowl through his hazy vision.

The absence of his glasses wasn't the only cause for the blur.

--

"Fuck that. I say we draw straws."

"Straws? What are you, nine?"

"And THIS is a better alternative, Alfalfa? Jesus."

"All yous -Shut Up-."

Four men, dressed in dirty suspenders, work pants, guns slung over their shoulders, and clown-masks pulled up over their foreheads--were standing around a table. Piled there, on the rickety plastic folding thing, were bags. Very very heavy bags. Full of -stuff-.

Off to the corner were another group of clowns, their masks still dutifully pulled down. They had luckily missed the cut this time for delivery boys. The other four weren't quite so lucky.

Russian roulette was the game, ladies and germs. SOMEone had to tell the boss the shopping trip hadn't gone quite as planned.

SOMEONE hadn't read the final note, scribbled on the back of the long scratchy list, not until they had returned.

And so, the deliberation began. Because we all know, whoever was gonna go in there wasn't going to come out in one piece. Let's meet our contestants.

Bozo, Scuzzo, Drippy and Groucho. Who's going to be our happy-smiley messenger?

"You two play, we two play, losers face off."

"I still say straws'd be better--"

"Shut up before I cut you myself, all right??"

The four of them flattened one palm, and raised their second hand in a fist.

"On three, shoot."

The others watched on in rapt attention. After all, where -else- can you gamble with your life through a game of rock-paper-scissors?

Round one--

Scuzzo shot paper. Drippy's safe with a strategically thrown scissors. Bozo shot rock, and Groucho cockblocked with the paper.

It's all down to this last round, kiddies. Who got to take home the million dollar prize?

Rock. Scissors.

Tch.

Poor Bozo.

As he shuffled the walk of death, the other hench-clowns actually felt rather -sorry- for the guy. The Joker was sadistic once. He was even funny sometimes, when he'd do away with various onlookers and hostages. Set stuff ablaze. Shot things.

But now, no one wanted to go near him. None of them wanted to be in his immediate vicinity. He -scared- them. Really, honestly scared them. He was nothing short of the fiery bowels of Hell, staring them in the eyes, passing judgment where he saw fit, -laughing- all the while, laughing, that grating awful sound, ringing constantly in their rattled heads. He was terrifying before.

Now…bloodcurdling. He was that little tug in your spine that made you want to crack open the back of your skull, and rip out the gray matter inside, just so you wouldn't have to hear that sound _one. More. Time_.

And every single one of them knew it. They were in too deep now. They were -stuck-. Until he finished whatever he decided he needed to finish.

Bozo had reached the door. All seemed pretty still behind it. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he wouldn't hear him knock. Maybe the hand of God would reach down and save him. It was about as probable as the last few possibilities.

He knocked. The sound echoed across the hideout.

Seconds passed.

Nothing.

He raised his hand again, and tapped only once--

_**CRATASH**_.

The door slammed open so hard, the entire building seemed to shake. Illuminated by the red light within, the Joker stared, unmoving, his gloved fingers still clutching the open door, a welding torch in his other hand.

"…Wha_t_."

The click of the 't' made him jump about three feet. Bozo opened his mouth to speak.

"**WHAT**."

The growling guttural yell made him quake, uncontrollably. But it did seem to replace his brain cells.

"Uhm--ah--d-d-d--we…got the...the stuff you, uh--you--"

The Joker brushed passed him, carelessly dropping the welding torch on the floor as he went. Bozo stared down at it as the hot tip started to burn a black mark into the cement.

"Oh, DID you…" The clown marched to the table, peeking daintily into the bags, removing a few items here and there, murmuring to himself--for a second there, it almost sounded like approval.

Bozo swallowed.

"Uh--uh--but--!"

The Joker stilled. He turned his attention to his little hench-clown.

"…But." He left his goody bags to step closer. "…But. _What_."

"…we…we, uh…forgot…the...cans…spray cans…"

An eternity passed. The most agonizing 60 seconds of the hench-clowns hazardous lives--so far.

The Joker was like stone. He stared holes into the face of the pawn, burning his displeasure into his skin.

And then he moved.

He strode straight towards Bozo, snatched him by the collar, and walked towards his tiny room.

The others stared in horror, as Bozo whined and struggled to high heaven, and the Joker merely dragged him, kicking, into the red light.

"You want something done, ah, RIGHT, you just have to DO it yourSELF--don't you?!"

Could no one follow simple directions anymore? Why, oh why, did the Joker have to do every single tiny bitty little thing himself.

He slammed the meaty body into one of his work tables, and started rummaging through the contents of another.

How was he supposed to get ANYTHING done if these THINGS would do what he ASKED them to do. It was all so very simple--no, no no, not that one, the other one--go to the store, and do his shopping.

Obviously, they didn't understand the WEIGHT of this project. --red wire, blue wire, cyanide skidoo--

Oh, how COULD they. None of them could understand the weight of the Batman. They were as worthless as the rest of this City. They would simply have to learn too. He shoved half the debris on the table to the floor, moving a number of plastic and glass bottles to the surface.

Yes, this one, not that one--the pink one, not the green one--

He violently tossed an empty produce can across the room, and snatched a long thin strip of paper from the table above the pawn. He jumped, and the Joker savagely kicked his leg.

He had already broken his concentration ONCE. He smoothed the paper next to the bottles, cans and various devices, muttering a tune under his breath.

Oh, yes, that must be it.

He stepped out of his room, throwing a half-broken bottle at his hench-clowns. They scattered. Like cockroaches.

"Bags. NOW."

As a few of them filed in, shakily delivering his purchases, the Joker returned his attention to the clown. He siiiiighed. He hoped Gotham appreciated all the work he was putting into this. But a few disfigured fingertips and scalding headaches were worth it.

Worth it for him.

There wasn't anything in the entire spinning world that couldn't be worth him. There was nothing, -nothing- he wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't do--his hands lightly gripped his hair again, if he could claw the throbbing away, it would feel better, rip out the picture of him and throw it away--there wasn't anything he wouldn't give, or throw into--there was NOTHING more important than THIS.

The shuffling of feet and whimpering broke his reverie. The Joker dropped his hands, light clumps of green clinging to his gloves.

The squirming hench-clown wouldn't stop blubbering.

The Joker kneeled down by him, leaning far into his face.

"…Let's give -you-…a HAPPY face…Hmm?"

He lightly smacked his cheek, ever pleasant, and returned to his feet. The Joker set upon his bags, ripping them apart, throwing various contents here and there.

He found what he was looking for.

A small, white pot of cold cream.

Working at his tiny self-made lab, his thoughts wandered back to the Bat. Who was he kidding. Where else would his thoughts wander, especially now. Half of him fought the hero's death--he would appear again, to save his fair City from the icy cold grip of the maniacal clown. The other half was ablaze with things he couldn't fully understand, being so split down the middle. What he -did- know was, that burning half of him couldn't -stop-. It was what kept him up and moving. Working away these hours. Turning on the news in spurts to watch these -people-, these great artists of sorrow, cry over _his_ Dark Knight. They wanted him. They claimed him as their's. Their Batman. Their savior. He was _his_. His, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, HIS, HIS, HIS, HISHISHISHISHIS--

The Joker slammed his fists into his table, over and over, growling, keening raging--he kicked, elbowed, slammed his hands and feet into the metal thing--pounding his message into Gotham's streets. Oh, they couldn't hear him yet, but they would--they could -feel- him, rising beneath them, molten, searing. Waiting.

His hands throbbed as he viciously mixed the thick gloop inside the small cold-cream pot. He was rather pleased with himself that it stayed looking so -white-.

In two strides, the Joker was upon Bozo, using one arm to lift the wailing, trembling man to his feet, and forcing his back painfully against the second table.

"ConGRATulations, and thank you for participating in our--PRODUCT experimentation!"

He waved his hand and a hench-clown rolled a chair to him from outside the room.

"Our products are made from the FINEST ingredients--" He -forced- the pawn into the seat, and dug his knee into his gut. "--Imported from Paris, and mixed with the finest toxins this country has to offer!! Sure to put a SMILE on that FACE."

He grabbed the man's face, his bandaged gloved fingers digging brutally into his skin.

"Side effects may include headache, stuffy nose--" The Joker scooped a large glop of the white foul-smelling goo out of the small cream pot, "--indigestion, bleeding from the eyes, bowel obstruction, disfiguring pus-filled welts--or it might just melt your face off. HAHA HA!!"

The hench-clown yelled, muffled, as the Joker smeared the handful of ick into his cheeks. It only took a number of seconds, he started to spasm. Violently. The Joker stood from the chair, idly flicking remnants of goo from his glove.

Bozo thrashed, twisted--gagging, clawing at his throat and face, leaving thin red trails across his skin. His whole body seizured, shaking, striking the air--he spasmed so hard, some of the horrified onlookers swore they heard him break his own back.

The Joker, however, merely watched, intently, fixated on his face.

Smoke started to rise from the taut, scratched skin--the muscles started to contract, the flesh tightening, pulling back, back, back, further and further across his face--his lips cracked and thinned, shrinking away from his teeth--the skin over his eyes shrank, the eyelids yanking them upwards, exposing the white, veiny spheres, bulging out of his skull.

The Joker was ecstatic by the time he stilled. He couldn't contain himself. He leaned against the second table for support, cackling at the stretched mangled face of what was once Bozo the Hench-Clown.

The mouth formed a grotesque, angry, gash-like _grin_.

It had -worked-.

The Joker hopped joyfully, slamming his feet back down into the pavement. He climbed into the chair with Bozo, his knee across his lap.

"Another SATISFIED customer!" He giggled, poking the spongy steaming forehead. "What do you THINK, boys?'

He turned his attention to his silent brigade.

"Safer than Botox, with better results, at half the price--aw, heck, I'm just GIVING IT AWAY."

As their boss lapsed into another wave of laughter, some of them ventured a few uneasy chuckles.

This was perverse.

This was…chemical warfare.

Their awkward chuckles were immediately cut short as the Joker rose from his victim and crossed the room. He threw them an empty duffle bag.

"Get me my aerosol cans. Shoo."

They practically fell over themselves, hurrying out the door.

The Joker murmured under his breath, rolling his new smiling friend out of his room and into the main room of his hideout. He spun him around in his chair, a waltz on his lips, and swung him wide, sending him crashing into a wall nearby.

The body slumped to the floor, the grinning head turning towards him.

"-I- thought it was fun, too."

With a light skip, the Joker nabbed his wooden TV chair, and dragged it to his small television.

No pawns to bother him. Sounds at all, not right now. The faintest echo here and there. The scuffing of his shoes, the sound of cloth against cloth.

The Clown sat down, the wood of his chair creaking.

…

He didn't turn on the box just yet.

He listened.

He listened to the quiet.

The stilling walls, the darkness.

Maybe--if he listened hard enough--he could still hear him breathing there. Like he had, moments before those lights came on in that glorious room, maybe--just maybe, he could hear the rustling of Kevlar and leather, the flexing of strong fingers through thick black armor.

If he listened hard enough, maybe he could start his heart again. Then, it wouldn't only be his own beat, ringing relentlessly in his ears.

If he tried hard enough, he would come back.

"..come back.."

….

The television came on with a click.

The Clown leaned over his knees, glowering at the bright screen, relentless in his disdain. He couldn't have missed much. He'd only had it off for an hour. And 27 minutes.

It was then, they switched to what looked like a podium. The strip on the bottom of the screen read, 'Shocking news: New Development in Batman Disaster; Police finally disclose information"

The Joker moved ever closer to the screen, hands clasped. What, what, what.

On stepped the Commissioner. He adjusted his glasses.

"…We have suffered a great Tragedy in Gotham."

--

Oh, the death of a hero, the birth of a heartsick clown.

Next time: Chapter 4 - Eulogy for a Bat; What was then once was?

R&R, my loves, you are the wind beneath my wings!!


	4. A Few Words for the Deceased

SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY, EVERYONE. I'm trying to move into our new house, and my internet is less than stellar. 3 Trust me, you'll have many chapters to come.

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. Sigh. If only, if only.

--

**Chapter 4: A Few Words for the Deceased **

--

What does it take to crush a City. What amounts of devastation and destruction keeps the spirits of the people in the lowest of places. What crumbles them into oblivion, what takes their hope.

Even in a city like Gotham, you could take their homes, their freedom, their lives--break them, butcher them, spill gallons of their blood, but they would still stand up on their shattered bones, wipe the dirt from their hands and hold strong to their faith. Their hope.

How do you stop that?

By taking away the one thing that inspired that hope.

"_At 11:57am this morning, our parties came across a black object floating in the bay."_

No, not any other religious entity. Those are abstract--something you can't see, there's too much doubt tied in with them--and it is something you cannot remove. When they're given a tangible symbol, something they can see, touch--something that has physically saved them--it doesn't take -away- from the spiritual faith the populace might have, it grows a -NEW- kind of faith. One in the -human- aspect. That yes, there are mortals on this planet who give a damn about the lives of others.

"_Judging by it's shape, and size, it is…indisputable that we had found a piece of the Batman's armor."_

That there is goodness in the world.

When that is ripped out of them, when hope is scraped out of the heads of the people, leaving a great, bloody, gaping void.

Only then can a City truly be crushed. Into nothingness.

"_Our forces are needed to go against the current threat against the City. Sudden break-outs of crime have doubled. We must withdraw all search parties, immediately. Citizens of Gotham, I share your pain a hundred fold. As does the entire police force. We may have shunned him, hurt him--and he never wavered in his hope to save us. He was our true hero, one of so few who had the courage to rise against the evil in this town. _

_The Mayor has agreed to a City-wide memorial service for our masked defender, tomorrow, 8am, in front of City Hall. Now is the time that we must pull together as a community, more than ever. We must learn to carry on. Thank you." _

And so, Gotham fell further into despair, and all because of a black vinyl -thing- their trusted officials found in the harbor. And there it sat now, on the podium, with Commissioner Jim Gordon.

Empty. Dark. A mask of death.

Every television in Gotham burned into the day, playing back the worst tragedy of their time.

Somewhere, in a warehouse, secluded from the rest of weeping Gotham, one of those televisions was now reduced to a pile of broken glass, sparking wires and smoke. It's purple-clad owner still beating it with a chair leg. Screaming.

Ah. Gotham.

Who was to save them now. Who would come when called.

Lost. All lost.

--

Streetlight--streetlight, yellow-gold, blinding silver reflected electric lamp-post. Grayish blackish cement, so many shadows, so many faces--

At least he was remembering words now. What things were called.

And more importantly, the things that could potentially kill him. Walking straight into a on-coming motor vehicle wasn't his brightest idea so far.

Some how, he had recovered the reflexes to jump out of the way of the grill of a two-ton truck. How he managed such a feat…there was something there…just on the tip of his overly dry tongue.

The Man who wasn't a man ducked under an overpass. He hugged his arms--the thin material of whatever the black thing was he had on his body hardly bracing him against the wind or cold. Suddenly, he regretted throwing off the thick vinyl-like material he clawed from himself earlier. He was still wet. There was sand on him, in every crevice of his body. There was water running off the bridge from above. He raised his head and caught a few dribbles in his mouth.

It was dirty, grimy--bits of…something in it…but it wet his mouth. There were…things…ringing in his ears. Sounds. People passed--equally lost and dirty people--talking, yelling--he couldn't understand them. The signal was coming in all wrong.

He lightly hit his fist against the side of his head. Get out, get out, get out--there was something else in there--screaming at him--clawing at his skull.

A shoulder hit his--there were those sounds again, he couldn't hear him, couldn't see him--there were too many things scratching the folds of his brain.

Screaming…there was a name…a name, a name--what was it?? It was right there--

Something small and pale dropped at his feet. The clouds in his head disappeared as he gazed on the circular shape of a…something. At least he knew it was edible. He looked up at the person who dropped it--he was staring slack-jawed at a blinking thing--box--thing, through a window, along with six other people.

The man snatched up the food and fled.

He didn't know what made him run so fast--know when it duck out--what gave him the instincts to take and leave. It was only there. Survive on what's presented to you.

Our Man settled down back under the overpass, curling in a dark cement and steel corner to eat his stolen goods. He picked bits off it, as he quietly tried to remember what the oddly-shaped thing was called. What sort of bread would be made to have a hole in the middle of it. He lightly fingered the bloodied dots on his chest, where the material of the thing he had on were ripped. They hurt. A lot.

There was something stuck in his skin--something he couldn't get out with his fingers. He had tried, and it only made it bleed more. His head hurt. Everything really, really hurt. Just walking around seemed to make him ache.

And that running spell had opened up all the tiny holes in his skin.

And he was cold.

Cold, cold, cold.

A small hand snapped him from his thoughts on pain. He looked up, four soulful green eyes staring into his own. The older one--the boy--held a dark, ratty blanket around his shoulders. The younger one, another boy, hugged a large filthy jacket around his own.

The older pointed to his food. Then he removed the blanket and held it out.

The man glanced at his food, then the old cloth--and without hesitation, handed it over to them. Refusing the blanket.

Something--that same something as before--told him to. At least in this fuzzy, loud world, there was something as solid as lead, weighting him down. He contented himself, watching the two boys curl up together at his feet, sharing the bagel.

_Bagel_.

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after awhile…

--

"Hey. Maria."

Detective Bullock, who was currently monitoring the switch of the guard on the Hatter, fiddled with his tie. He didn't like black. The only times he ever wore black were if a family member died, or someone on the force had died. Black didn't have any pleasant memories tied to it. For awhile, though, almost everyone saw the better in it. Because it was flying over the skyscrapes of Gotham, striking fear into the hearts of the guilty. It -meant- something. And now, all of a sudden, it's back to being what it always was. The most depressing color anyone could be forced to wear.

Bullock hated Batman. He hated him, with every fiber of his being. He did their jobs, he stole half their credit--made a fool out of the entire GPD. He killed people, even. Yet SOMEHOW, for SOME reason, every single person in the precinct was walking around like their own fucking mothers had all up and died. Wandering around like beaten dogs. Bullock hated it. Mostly because he felt it too. He was depressed. He was depressed beyond all reason.

Maybe it was Jim. Maybe it was the City's reaction--maybe it was because he...really didn't hate the Bat as much as he thought he did. Now, that was just stupid.

Fucking Gotham. Had him talking crazy now.

Maria wandered over, a black band on her arm. She was staying behind to monitor the Hatter, since three-fourths of the force were going to be downtown.

"Seen Jim."

"He's in his office…"

"Mayor just called. He wants, uh...to know if he finished the eulogy."

"Ai, you can't be serious. I have to fight half the people in this place to leave him alone with it."

"Yeah, well…" Bullock shrugged, looking towards the closed door of the Commissioner's office. He hadn't come out of there for a few hours. Everyone was on edge. No one had heard a word from the Clown.

No threats.

No tapes.

No notes.

No cards.

Nothing. It wasn't -like- the Joker. Most times, he barely waits 20 minutes after breaking out of Arkham to do something awful. But it had been two days.

Two whole goddamn days, going on three days. Gordon was getting a little manic. He was expecting him to at least come after the Hatter. Why, Bullock didn't understand. Why would that freak care if the Bat was gone anyway. He was trying to snuff him out half the time. Didn't make sense.

Still. He was nervous too.

"He still has…40 minutes before we have to leave. I can't believe the mayor just sprang it on him like that."

"Jim's takin' it harder than anybody. Should-a gotten someone else to do it."

"There's no one else to do it right now, Harvey…"

Both officers turned. Gordon stood in the doorway of his office, a thin piece of paper in his hand. He folded it twice, and slipped it into his jacket. The cowl was behind him, on his desk.

"Are we ready for this afternoon, Maria." Everything seemed so forced. So solemn.

"Yes, sir--the hospital just called and confirmed our questioning with Crane and Meyerson, the Joker's shrink…"

The Commissioner nodded, stepping back into his office to retrieve the cowl.

"Good…good…well, we should--get there a bit early. Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir, that's…" Maria's words faded as Gordon merely drifted past them, staring at the black thing in his hands. With an uneasy glance towards one another, Bullock and Maria followed.

Gotham would never be the same, after this day.

Oh, if only they -knew-.

--

The rickety plastic folding table quivered and near collapsed as a large, navy duffel was thrown on it, sending playing cards flying. The Hench-clowns sitting at it turned with apprehension towards their boss.

"Get up. We're leaving."

The four of them sitting down scrambled to their feet, one of them grabbing the particularly heavy duffle. The rest of them snatched up their masks and ran after him. The night before, they had been sent out to recruit. The turn-out was decent, no less nerve-racking. More men usually meant more opportunities to die horribly.

The Joker disappeared into his small red room as the boys ran to ready their stolen vans. He tossed a few more duffels out of his room, laughing as the force of them sent a few pawns sprawling under the weight.

The laughter was short lived, though.

Barely a chuckle.

He couldn't -breathe- today. He scratched at his neck for the millionth time, the angry red marks there starting to leak. There was a -void- in there, right at his collarbone, it wouldn't hold anything down, and it wouldn't let anything out.

But he just could stop -going-. Move move move move, go go go go go.

The boys hitched up the vans, and the Joker, a smaller bag in his hand, climbed in, and the doors were promptly shut.

As they sped down the street, he ripped one of the duffels apart, forcing aerosol cans into the hands of his boys. He scratched his neck again, cracking the bones there, grabbed one of his hench-clown's wrists, and checked the time.

Couldn't be late, no, no, no.

This was a _very very important _morning.

--

Gordon stared from his chair behind the podium.

He had expected a turn-out. He had expected the news crews, the vultures--the celebrity and big-business moguls. He had expected Lucius Fox, face solemn, sitting there in the front. He had expected the Mayor giving some long-winded speech about heroism. He had even expected school busses.

But never in his life, would he have expected -this-.

The entire street was packed with people. There wasn't an inch of pavement. It stretched further than he could see, hundreds--the majority of the City could be there, right now, in front of City Hall. If he wasn't so moved, he might have panicked about having so many vulnerable people in one place at one time.

But he -was- moved. He was very damn well moved to -tears-. Their sadness seemed to echo--there were people -crying- out there, hundreds, at the same time, their weeping wafting between the buildings around City Hall.

Gordon lightly wiped a tear trickling into his mustache. He silently cleared his throat and adjusted in his chair. The Batman had been right, though. When in times of need, Gotham could come together. It's soul was still healthy. It could heal itself, through it's citizens. And here they all were, -showing- him that they could.

What a memory to leave with him.

Gordon was terrified. Without Batman, the criminals re-grew their balls, and they were out there now, preying on their wounded town. They had to keep up what the Batman had tried to fix. Gordon couldn't let the darkness win. And they had to catch the Joker. Wherever he was.

Gordon was no fool--he had heard the things said between them, he had been present for a hundred interrogations with the Clown. Ying and yang. The Joker was perversely insane. It frightened him to think what happened to him when his balance was taken away. And like -this-.

Jim remembered the night they had first really…'talked' to one another. The memory was painfully vivid.

'_You..complete __**me**__.'_

What was Gordon going to do. He wasn't his adversary. He wasn't another Batman. What could he ever do.

A hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. Mayor Garcia gave him a soft, saddened smile. Gordon nodded, stood, and walked uncertainly to the podium.

His eyes turned once to the small stand that held the cowl. It stared, blankly, into the crowds.

For a moment, he simply stared out at all the faces there. The still flowing tears, the flashing camera lights, the sniffles and hiccups.

A thin pale hand stretched into the air. Barbara. At her side were his children. His son gave his dad a brave smile.

James swallowed to keep the lump from his throat, and removed the paper from his coat.

"…I know…many in Gotham saw the Batman to be…a criminal. A vigilante. Something to fear, a madman, someone who…shouldn't be allowed to roam the City. I have always disagreed. In a time of darkness, when we were beyond all hope, the Batman was the man who splashed water on our faces, and made us see the morning. He brought us to the light--gave us…the first sign of hope Gotham had seen in too long a time. "

--

A number of police officers shifted behind the platform in front of City Hall.

A van pulled up and stopped on one of the side streets. The six of them shifted again, hands going to their weapons. One of them walked over, hand raised--

The door slid open, and a number of figures stepped out, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, spray-cans in their hands.

The last to emerge from the van slicked his green-greased hair to the side.

The officers reached for their guns and radios.

The Clown raised his aerosol can.

--

"The first time I met the Batman…" Gordon paused. He stared at his written words on paper…folded them away, and slipped them back into his coat.

"Quite frankly, he, uh…he scared the bejeezus out of me." He cracked a small chuckle, and a small few followed suit. "From the beginning, he…he seemed to truly understand what Justice meant. What--what it meant to fight for -good-. Despite what everyone called him--the things he was blamed for, the…the laws he broke. He -was- this City's true hero. The truest hero this world has ever seen. And…by the looks of things, by--how many people I see out here today, you all think so too."

Gordon lightly adjusted his glasses.

"…We're here to give our goodbyes to the man who protected us, even when he believed he wasn't wanted. To thank him."

He took a steady breath.

"…To thank Batman. Gotham's Dark Knight. Our true hero--"

The microphone cut out. Gordon glanced around the podium, then to the others on the platform with him. Where were the technical directors?

A moment of feedback. A grainy, purring voice _hummmmed_ through the speakers.

"Now you've got me all _CHOKED UP_, Com_mm_m-issioner…"

Jim froze.

Oh, God.

There was a scream--a group of clown-faced men lumbered onto the wooden stage pointing guns, and what looked to be spray-cans, at the on-lookers. Two of them trained their weapons on Gordon. He lifted his hands and stepped away from the podium.

"What's the MATTER, Gotham…"

The Joker stepped out onto the platform, a slotted, classic-looking microphone in his gloved hand.

"…You look as if somebody _DIED_."

He sighed heavily into the microphone, the speakers screeching a bit of feedback.

Another group of clowns positioned themselves at the foot of the platform. Gordon stared around the street--he could see more of them, moving into position--they were -blockading- the street.

"Hel_lo_, filthy masses. Surprised to see me? I just thought I'd--pffhhhsshh--pay my respects…to the de-early…de-par-ted…" The Joker seemed to stop in his words. Like they just wouldn't come anymore. His eyes closed as he tried to force another sound out of his mouth.

Gordon stared at him, unblinking. He jumped as the clown roughly beat the side of his head with the heel of his palm. Jesus Christ, what -happened- to him.

Sudden movement on the platform attracted his attention--

One of the officers was attempting to rush the Joker.

He raised his can and sprayed him directly in the face.

Gordon was forced to look away as the kid writhed on the ground--his skin was -bubbling-, the flesh growing taut over his bones--he flinched as he gurgled and sputtered, a melty, -grinning- mess on the ground.

The Joker watched the boy in blue twitch and make icky noises. He raised his eyes to the other officers nearby. He jumped at them, shaking his spray can, and they darted backwards, shaking.

Good.

He sniffed a little, and wandered over to Gordon.

"That was just a -lovely- speech there, Jimmy." The Joker draped his arm across the man's shoulders. "But there's something I, ah, noticed…something _terribly, terribly wrong_…"

The growl in his voice made Gordon wince. He leaned back as the Clown came ever closer to his face--his breath on his cheek. He pressed the metal of the microphone against his chin.

"The _BA__**T**_…never…**EVER**…belonged to -_**them**_-." The Joker raised his eyebrows, and turned the Commissioner's face towards his. He had to -listen-. If he didn't listen, he didn't -learn- anything.

"He…belonged to _**ME**_." He jostled the Commissioner roughly, his glasses going askew. Gordon tried to keep himself calm, breathing roughly through his nose.

"But I'm sure you knew that, didn't you, Commissioner…" Gordon said nothing. He shook him again. "DIDN'T YOU."

Jim closed his eyes. He winced as the small white nozzle to the spray-can was pressed into his other cheek, the wet remnants of it's last spray burning his skin.

"Hhhn--!!" He gritted his teeth--the pain was horrific, he could -hear- the tiny patch of skin sizzling.

"..Yes…"

The nozzle was removed, and the Clown's hold relaxed fractionally.

"I thought so. All that, ah, heartache got to you." The Joker smiled, walking him towards the front of the high platform.

"You need time to grieve."

With a heavy -shove-, the Joker sent Gordon flying off the platform. Upon hitting the pavement, there was a resounding _SNAP_ as the Commissioner landed on his out-stretched arm, one of the two bones in his lower arm protruding through the skin--and his suit jacket. On cue, the hench-clowns at the foot of the platform circled around him, guns and spray-cans pointed.

Gordon hissed in pain, trying to cradle his bleeding arm, staring upwards at the Joker, who was currently eyeing the cowl. He pushed his spray-can into the hands of a nearby clown, and held the microphone in the crook of his arm.

The Joker gingerly lifted the broken black thing.

He pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth, dropped it, and lightly, ever ever lightly, placed his fingertips on the forehead of the cowl. He traced the angry lines of the face, the points of the bat ears, the jagged ripped side, smoothed both the eye holes, down the pointed nose…

He stared into the black holes for the longest time. He could still see the glistening righteous eyes there, narrowed at his face. Focused solely on him. Those unnatural eyes, swirling with unbridled perseverance; wan and -lonely-, for Godsakes.

He remembered the first time he -saw- those specked orbs. The first time they were -close- enough. He could still smell the sweat between them, if he remembered hard enough…

The Joker turned his face upwards, inhaling sharply through his nose, holding the cowl in both his hands. As he exhaled shakily, he turned his attention to the crowds, and stalked to the podium.

Holding the cowl like some sacred thing, he slammed his microphone down onto the podium, planting it there with the others.

"…." His mouth opened with a smack, "--I would like a show of hands…how many of you -things-…actually -met-…the _Batman_."

No one moved.

"No, ah--honestly. I want to know. It's okay--go ahead, raise your hands." He smiled, gesturing to the people.

The Hench-Clowns started roughing people near the edges of the crowd.

Finally, someone raised their hand.

Then another, and another--a few hands popped up around the crowd--and as the word spread, some they couldn't see near the back of the crowds.

At a glance? Not many. Not many at all.

The Joker impatiently tapped his ungloved fingers against the podium.

"…No one--no one else. Hm? No one." he sucked on his tooth. "I expected as much."

He rolled his neck once, and scratched the base of his throat.

"You…ridiculed him…shunned him…called him out as a criminal--ah--hunted him down like, well…like you would -me-, ahm…defaced him…-hated-..him…while he was--ah--while he was taking time out of his busy Batty schedule to SAVE you all--now, Gotham…"

He stretched the muscles attached to his jaw a little, hitting the podium with his palm.

"You're all saying that you MISS him? Hm? You're all--ah--here to MOURN the passing of your would-be _**hero**_? I've been hearing that word a lot lately--HERO--and for SOME reason, nobody seemed to want to use it LAST WEEK, when our resident flying rodent was saving you w_oooorm_s from unseen peril--"

He jerked into his microphone.

"STOP ME…IF I'M WRONG."

Another lapse of silence. His tongue darted between his lips.

"Y'see, Gotham, I'm just a wee bit confuuused here, and I'd appreciate it if someone could, ah, clear up my current _boggle_."

He lightly brought the cowl to the podium, resting his open hands there, the pointed mask nestled securely in his fingers.

"You despised him, Gotham. You threatened him with expulsion. Jail. Life incarceration--a padded cell even. Hm? None of you KNEW him. And now--suddenly--the Bat is--GONE. And you all STAND THERE, crying your shallow eyes out--**you have the nerve to trick me into **_**thinking you care**_."

He sniffed again, staring at the visage in his hands.

"…I think…it's time to put the hankies away. Because let's face it, ladies and germs, it's not REALLY how you're feeling, is it. But don't worry. I'm here to help."

He smiled again, bringing the mask down from the podium.

"The Clown has come to liven up this pity-party. It's my job to make sure, ah, that every..single person…wears a smiiiile on their pretty faces. There's enough of my special happy spray to go around for EVERYBODY--but you know what. In memory…of my beloved belligerent Bat…"

He motioned for one of his hench-clowns to come near, nabbed his wrist and looked at the time.

"…I'll give you a 10-second head start. I don't mind. Everyone's going to have a front-row-seat for my grand finale. It's going to be a blast." He cradled the cowl in his hands, looking at his pawn's wrist.

"That's 10-seconds. Starting..now."

Needless to say, pandemonium erupted in front of City Hall. Thousands, trying to run through the narrow alleyways, rushing around corners to escape--trampling children--leaving long stains of blood across the concrete. The police were useless.

Commissioner Gordon, clutching his shattered arm, found a chance to escape through the legs of one of the hench-clowns, and disappeared into the crowds of civilians, calling for his family. Lucius Fox hurried with the others, quickly finding his way back to the company's car--giving ride to those he could grab. The Mayor was rushed out by members of his security, and the rest of the force tried to take out the clowns.

God help them when the 10-seconds ended.

Sadly, God wasn't listening at the time.

While large groups of people laid screaming in heaps of sizzling reddened flesh, the Joker wandered from the platform, the cowl in his hands, and stepped back inside one of the vans.

It would be a minute or two before the boys had depleted their cans. He sat down in the back of the van, doors open, feet dangling a few inches above the street, staring at the half-face of the rogue and savior he devoted everything to.

"…see..? Almost there. Just…a few more people to see. And then the curtain call." He smiled a little, his ungloved index finger making small strokes on the forehead.

"I'll take my bow soon. I promise."

--

A eulogy well deserved!

Next time: Chapter 5 - Good Morning, Doctor, how are you feeling?

R&R my darlingest darlings!! They keep me writing in this sea of boxes and torment!!


	5. The Bringer of Fear and Agent of Chaos

Oh, my most wonderful reviewers, watchers and readers, thank you, thank you, thank you.

It's been a little over a year, but it's been a very, very crazy and ridiculous year. The move took over my life, and then I had a hard time finding a job, and then the wildfires happened, went without money for awhile, etc, etc, etc. I've been avoiding the computer so as not to be distracted in getting my life back on track. It's pretty steady now, so I will try to get these out as quick as I can! Thank you for being so patient.

SaJi, you're an angel in disguise. I'll be correcting my previous chapters as soon as I can. Your e-mails just warm my heart, and you're my most loyal fan. Thank you, thank you so so much. All my love.

You all keep me writing. Just brightens my day!

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. Imagine if I DID, though, I mean, the -gay- and all.

-----

**Chapter 5: The Bringer of Fear and the Agent of Chaos**

----

White, soft shoes, countless pairs, rushing by puce-colored walls.

The door was open. The television was..on? On.

Frighteningly still white-clad form---

"…I-I keep--trying to remember what we…didn't do. What went wrong so fast."

Wet, bare feet slapping against white linoleum.

Whirring, spinning, red alarms.

Glints of metal, jagged bent pipe---

"Why we weren't able to keep it under control. Isolated."

What is it about the unknown that so frightens people?

"…keep…Him under control…"

And yet--why do we constantly frighten one another. Why does a parent tell stories to their young children of a boogeyman under the bed, of the monster in the closet--of the thing in the lake that pulls children under the water to eat them…in hopes that it will keep their child away from bodies of water.

A parent might do so for protection. A friend, a colleague, sister, brother, lover--they might for fun. We scare one another, and ourselves, for cheap thrills.

That fear has been instilled in us since we were so very young. Avoid the darker corners. Keep a light in the hallway. Make sure the closet door is all the way closed. Leap into bed, so as not to expose one's ankles to the dark underneath for too long…something might reach out from there, and drag you down.

We all still do it.

You do. Admit it.

Walk quickly past a darkened room. Stare warily upwards, because you -swear- you just heard something. Avoid windows at night, anything could be staring in at you. Check over your shoulder…something could be there...lingering in the shadows…

You're taught to fear. From your first moment into life, screaming to high heaven, you're taught to be afraid. Not just of the intangible, but of things. Of people. Yourself.

Have your instincts ever frightened you. Have you ever stepped back from your body, and **shiver** at what you just thought of saying. Doing.

Some people aren't quite as lucky to experience such an enlightening experience. Some people don't understand what it is to be afraid.

And those people, children, are the movement in the dark. The slit eyes from under the bed, the crooked dirty claws curled around the closet door, the itch on the back of your neck when you know something is watching…

"I-I was trying to get to one of our panic buttons, th-they send out signals to the police station, the fire station, the…there was a wave of people, coming towards me. In the east wing, second floor. I didn't--know what they were running from. They were…"

_Screaming, shoving, pushing, running--- a white-clad woman falls, in the midst of pandemonium, cowering, covering her head, crying out at the barrage of legs. _

"She was being trampled…I stopped to--to get her up, I was trying to calm the rush--"

_The bodies trickle out, and both nurse and doctor are able to rise to their feet._

"..and…I saw him.."

_A light, ear-biting scraping--hunched shoulders, steady, strong steps--scarred, bare---he drags a broken stool leg in one hand, clutching a scalpel in another. Bodies litter the hall behind him. Twitching. Writhing vainly. Piles of flesh. Ignored. _

"…I…I thought I was going to die…"

_Man and woman turn to run---he swings--CRACK--and she tumbles to the ground, pulling him with her, back bloodied. Another swing, and her leg is unusable. The doctor scrambles backwards._

"Oh, God."

_Her hair is pulled taut, the small blade pressed to her throat. _

"..I left her…."

_She reaches for him. _

"…I left--I left her there…"

Jim Gordon looked on as Dr. Robert Meyerson covered his face and cried. He shifted from one foot to the other, his arm still throbbing in it's sling. Too fresh out of surgery, they had said. He needed to rest, they said. Jim didn't have time. This town waited for no one now.

Bullock glanced over his shoulder from his seat next to the bed. Jim nodded. They needed to keep moving.

"…Look, Doctor. I understand it's been…unbelievably tryin'…but--we need you to tell us something, anything about what the Joker said, where he might be going. And--what condition he's in right now--frankly, we don't know what to do if he's…tossed -all- of his eggs out of his basket, y'know?"

Harvey wasn't the most eloquent, but he did say what needed to be said. Sort've. It was best he was doing the talking. Gordon was having a hard time keeping himself under control. Unimaginable numbers, injured, dead and dying. A good portion of the force indefinitely hospitalized. His own daughter didn't make it away without a leg shattered in two places. If he unraveled now, where would the rest of them be…?

"Well, wh…What do you expect me to say, Detective?" Meyerson sniffed, leaning his head back. "There's some--miracle pill I can give him, so he won't try to destroy Gotham for the sake of a dead vigilante?"

"There has to be something you can tell us, Doctor, you've been treating him since he came here."

Meyerson glanced at Gordon. He sighed.

"…to say the Joker is…obsessed…with the Batman is a gross…-gross- understatement. His delusion of this--perfect world between the two of them is, frankly, mind-blowing. He truly believes that one cannot exist without the other. They are two of one whole, forever destined to be at odds, to be…together. In some fashion. The Batman is, and I quote, his 'reason'," He swallowed, rubbing one red eye. "For everything. He dominated his life so completely that when his apparatus was taken, he fell into a vicious…hysteria. Straying from my professional opinion, gentlemen…I think we should all get the hell out. Now."

A beat. A nurse wandered in, a lunch tray in hand. Harvey stood and made his way over to Gordon.

"Whadd'yathink." Harvey glanced back towards the bed-ridden doctor. Gordon watched his own shoes.

"…That's the most we'll get from him. I'm checking in downtown, make sure nothing funny's going on with Tetch. Maybe we'll get more from--"

Dawlings came trotting down the hall. There was a bandage across his left eye. Like many of the injured officers who avoided the short end of the stick, he decided to stay on duty. He stopped, lightly panting. Harvey turned to him.

"Well? Did he talk?"

"No, sir…" Dawlings turned to Gordon, swallowing lightly. "…He wants to talk to you. Only you."

Jim eyebrows shot upwards. He traded glances with Bullock, and started briskly down the hall, the Detective and Dawlings at his heels.

--------------------------------

"…undreds of people, horribly mangled--medical personnel has yet to identify the substance the Joker unleashed on the crowds. Gotham City is now clutched in wide-spread panic, unable to--"

The television popped, the screen going blank in a light white flash.

"Hey, whackjob." His eyes flicked to the owner of the offending finger that had switched off the monitor. "You gotta visitor."

He licked a finger, gingerly turning the page of his lightly singed book. He hadn't been watching, really. Listening, but not watching. It didn't matter, they were all saying the same thing. Joker on the loose, killing hundreds, threatening some big to-do all in the name of, dare he think it, love.

It made his brain tingle with excitement.

He turned another page. The light shuffle of shoes on linoleum at his doorway didn't tear him from the words on paper.

"Just a moment, commissioner," He lifted a finger, "I'll be right with you."

Harvey Bullock stepped forward, mouth open, something foul on his tongue. Gordon stopped him, a hand on his chest. They had to play nice. For now. The good Doctor listened to them murmur amongst themselves between the sentences in his book. The Commissioner was at the end of his rope, of course. He could hear it in him. Overcome by grief…it didn't touch on the Joker himself, but it was certainly deep. Jim really had cared about that winged menace. He did have to admit, a part of him felt…saddened…at his absence…saddened…elated…without the need to check under his bed every night…frightfully disappointing…

Finally, the skinny, bed-ridden psychopath marked his place, closed the book and set it aside. He turned a smile and nod to Commissioner Gordon.

"Jim. How are you feeling today."

"Hello, Dr. Crane." He stepped in, carefully pulling the curtains around the bed, obscuring the doorway. "I need to ask you some questions."

Jonathan Crane gave him a gentle nod, removing his glasses.

"About the Joker."

"..Yes. About the Joker." He pulled a chair near the incapacitated doctor. He lightly eyed his suspended, plaster covered leg, and the yellow bruises on his face.

"Awful, isn't it?" Crane gestured his mangled leg. "Broken in six places, the doctors said. Four metal pins were inserted up here--" He touched the side of his thigh, "And I--had some internal bleeding at some point."

"You were lucky, Dr. Crane."

"Yes, I've -heard-. Tell me, Commissioner," He leaned forward, as well as he could, gesturing with his glasses, "What were you feeling, up there…while he was next to you…"

Gordon paused, eyes wandering to the starched, foul-smelling hospital sheets.

"…what was it…like?"

'_He belonged…to __**ME**_.'

Gordon unconsciously touched the small bandage on his cheek, covering the small, throbbing red mark.

The Scarecrow smiled. Gordon had been petrified.

"..That's not important." Gordon dropped his hand, fixing Crane with a steely gaze. "What did he say, Crane. What made him want to hurt you."

"He didn't say anything of interest to me, before he destroyed that wing of the new facility." He sighed, leaning back into his pillows. "What set him off was that." He nodded to the television. "He heard it. Every word."

Gordon swallowed thickly.

"Why he--found it necessary to attack -me-, well-- you know the Joker, Jim…don't you. I knew something about the Bat. And he didn't." Crane gave a light shrug and smile. "Simple as that."

Gordon leaned back in the chair, rubbing his forehead with his uninjured hand. Another dead-end. The few goons in custody didn't know anything about his--'finale', so he called it. The Clown had disappeared again.

"…If you would like my…professional opinion, Commissioner…"

Gordon lifted his head, locking eyes with the smiling Scarecrow.

"…Go on, Doctor."

"I haven't been granted the privilege of spending an exorbitant amount of time with the man, bu_t_.." He folded his glasses on the tray by his bed and steeped his fingers. "…There are some who theorize codependency is situational, and with the right form of treatments, can be dispelled. Permanently. Childhood trauma--lesser forms of Cinderella complex could be the cause, etcetera--I personally do not agree with them…anymore. Upon discovering the Joker, I was first taken by his appearance. Custom clothing, disjointed facial make-up; the purpose of which Arkham has yet to unravel of course, but _I_ have a theory. Like the Bat, he has hidden himself behind an intimidating icon, and yet…neither are hidden at all." He lifted his fingers, holding them parallel. "What some have perceived as a mask is no mask at all…but the face one feels within. The Bat. And the Clown. As different as they seem to many, Commissioner, they are really very much alike…the Joker knows this. And in his righteous heart of hearts, I believe the Batman knew it as well, no matter how--he denied it, of course. His actions proved otherwise…Those few times Gotham thought it had been rid of the Clown, you weren't the only ones searching for the madman's body in the dead of night, commissioner. Whether it was solidification of his death, or in a hope that he might be alive, he looked."

Gordon frowned lightly, pained. The Scarecrow nodded.

"You know it, don't you. You've seen them together." What WOULDN'T he had given to study them. "My second fascination was with his attachment to the Batman. Like the most of his doctors, I thought it might have been rooted in hate…but I was very, very wrong. You see, Jim, codependency, at it's core, is one's need to look elsewhere for value, worth, and feeling whole. The Joker had Batman, and only Batman." He tilted his head lightly. "And…though it would seem Batman had Gotham City…he also had the Joker."

Gordon pressed his mouth against his fisted hand. The Scarecrow spoke quietly.

"Love hate. Hate love."

After a tense moment of quiet, the curtain was pushed aside revealing a plump nurse with a tray of beige-covered containers.

"…I'm so sorry, sir, but--it's lunch time--I can come back in a few minutes--"

"No, that's…that's all right." Gordon stood, fixing his glasses. "I'm finished here.

"I hope I've been some help to you, Commissioner." Jonathan Crane folded his hands across his stomach and gave the man a light smile.

"Hm." Gordon nodded, pushing the curtain back against the wall. "Take it easy, Dr. Crane. We'll have Arkham up and running by the time you're back on your feet."

Crane's smile faltered, and he grimaced as the food was set down by him. He lifted the lid of the largest container. It's contents only deepened his despair. "Oh, home sweet home."

---------------------------

The street sped by out the window, before vanishing into a long, cloudy stretch of water, rapid blurs of gray obscuring the view.

Bullock kept silent as he watched Gordon stare out the tinted window of the squad car at the river, Dawlings behind the wheel. The bridge was young. But beautiful. He had only caught snippets of the conversation Jim had with the crackpot Crowboy. Frankly, the skinny sicko had lost him somewhere around co-dependant-whatsitcalled and the Joker.

He was never savvy on all that psycho-babble-mumbo-jumbo bullshit…but whatever the creep said, it sure had Jim in a worse mood than before.

Daughter in the hospital, half the force outta the game--he didn't blame the guy for being a little morose.

And as much as he didn't want to admit it, he was worried. Really, really worried about Gordon. If he broke up, Bullock was the next in line to take over, and…well, fuck that. He couldn't do it. He wasn't the goddamn commissioner. Garcia could take his street sweeps and shove 'em right back up his--

"Harvey.."

"..Jim?"

"…we…might be in over our heads here…"

----------------------------

Jonathan Crane was not a fan of Jello. Let it be red, blue, green or chartreuse, anything wiggly and reflective was not for -eating-. He poked lightly at it's jiggling surface, leaving the watery stew and carton of milk untouched. Arkham meals were far superior…purely by the fact most of the inmates needed special diets. Feigning chemical distress, Jonathan had claimed trans-fats, toxin-enhanced and dehydrated foods would upset the delicate balance of his digestive tract.

Idiots.

He glanced towards the door where a few officers were standing guard to keep him a good little psychopath inside his window-less, bathroom-less, cabinet-less room. His useless leg already kept him from -going- anywhere…he reached for the large, bulky control for the television. Some news would take his mind of his stomach…

Surprise, surprise. More Batman babble. It seems they had found a few more pieces in the bay before completely pulling the search parties. Still..the absence of a body intrigued him…after all, a black-clad hulk like the Bat? Not exactly easy to miss…

During his ruminations, the good Doctor failed to notice two of the officers guarding him suddenly rush off. The other two drew their guns.

The lights flickered.

Crane glanced upwards, then towards the door. It was vacant.

He turned the television off then, leaning forward to look out into the white hallway.

It was…silent…

A woman went skidding across the floor--the same woman who had brought him his inedible dinner. She was weeping, blubbering--and tried to crawl away, her hands squeaking against the linoleum. Then, they were upon her--five of them, Clowns, panting--no sooner had the hiss of aerosol cans began that she started to scream, horribly. They disappeared into a cloud of god-knows-what…

Then he appeared.

Stepping through the mist, untouched--a scalpel in his hand, hair wild and sticking every which way--his jacket missing, sleeves rolled up to his elbows…hands blistered and bandaged.

Crane sat in silent awe as he stepped into his room, wiping wetness from his chin. The red, white and black were a blur…running, smearing into one another--flesh showed near the gnarled bumpy scars, naked and pink.

"Dr. Cra_aa_aa**n**e…" He purred, quietly, standing near his bedside, reddish eyes gazing down at him, the small, sharp blade in his hand raising lightly.

The Scarecrow watched, throat dry…it was an exquisite fear…fitting it would be the last…wouldn't it..?

---------------------

Dun, dun, dun!!!

Next time: Chapter 6: Do you want to talk about it?

R&R my lovelies! Mmmmwah!


	6. Unavoidable Entropy

I told you I'd be faster! Thank you for the reviews, my lovelies. :3 Mwahahaha!

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. If I did, trust me, there would be WAY more sexual tension…

Slash ahoy!

---------------------------------------

**Chapter 6: Unavoidable Entropy**

---------------------------------------

There was a bunny against that building.

A fluffy, sweet, white, plump bunny, drifting across the glass…it had a nice little cotton tail and one grayish eye staring off over the cityscape…

A wind caught it suddenly, and it moved faster and faster across the steel, bluish windows, rippling with the strange shapes of that tall, immovable building until it was gone…just like that.

The man who was not a man laid on the cold, muddy ground, hands folded on his stomach, staring dreamily upwards at the tall, scary scrapers, the clouds lightly reflecting on their shiny blinding windows. He was near a busy sidewalk, at a gray, dead park. He could hear people talk now, as they passed by. He remembered words like, "Hello" and "goodbye" and "where are my car keys?"

He knew what the subway was, and where to find a good cup of coffee. That street sign meant yield, and that woman was wearing red colored lipstick. Many simple pieces had come flooding back, but there, just out of sight, were nothing but gray clouds…like the ones floating above his head…

"Mister!"

Our man glanced to the side through yellow grass to see two boys hurrying towards him. In their gratitude for the first bit of unspoiled food they had had in a while, they found him a long dirty coat, and a pair of too-small shoes. They were warm. And a little soggy.

They presented their newest bounty, a small baggy full of brownish crackers.

They had a name.

It was somewhere.

He smiled, splitting the bag into three parts. The two boys pulled him to his feet, and they went walking, munching on their lunches, gazing quietly at the sky.

The small brothers had helped him quite a bit, reminding him of words and letters he had somehow already known. A is for apple, and always sniff for rat poison.

As comfortable as he was with the young boys, there was something…wrong.

The same kind of wrong he had felt days before, a quiet need--a want to be…doing…

A loud wailing siren woke him from his thoughts. The bright red and blue flashing lights appeared far away down the street. One of the boys grabbed his hand and started to pull.

He didn't want to go. He knew those sounds. Those lights. He was supposed to be where they were.

He needed to go where they went.

The second boy took his arm and pulled.

He looked at their frightened faces…

No one saw the man and two young boys as they fled the scene outside of Saint Mary's Hospital. There were far too many important things going on inside.

--------------------------------

"…this…is _terr_ible."

Jonathan Crane was still. As still as a flighty gazelle being eyed by a flock of hungry crocodiles near the watering hole. One false move, and…

"Isn't it?"

Chomp.

"…personally, I don't like it..no."

The Joker was sitting on his hospital bed. More specifically, he was sitting -inches- from his prone and vulnerable form, poking through his food with a very, -very- sharp instrument that he could very well turn on his fleshy easily bruised self. There was no escape plan. No burly orderly or policeman or _Batman_ to come and save him. He held his breath as the Clown skewered a piece of what could have once passed for beef out of the cold stew and bit it experimentally.

He jumped as the Joker spat it violently across the room…and dared to fix him with a disgusted glance. Terror or no, that was just grotesque.

Luckily for him, the Joker didn't really notice. He was occupying himself with the orange Jello cup. It jiggled and wiggled…when it stopped he could see himself in it. Or, rather, a distorted orange-colored self. It was a nice distraction. The Scarecrow was quiet, and he liked that. He had come to learn the man could say things he didn't like. He had come _looking_ for someone in particular, but this jelly treat seemed awfully nice right now. Simple, sweet, and…squishy… he laughed.

Or he tried…to laugh. He managed a light breathy sound, free of mirth. He cracked his neck, bandaged and bitten nails lifting to scratch at his blocked throat. Pesky, leaking skin.

Dr. Crane frowned, eyeing the angry red and scabby marks on his throat. He had seen quite the bit of lunacy in his years, but…well…to gaze upon someone so purely -_unhinged_- was a privilege. As a Doctor, of course.

He swallowed. Carefully, and as gently as he could manage…Crane slipped his hand into the crocodile's mouth.

"…Joker."

"Mmmnnnh."

"…You've been busy since you left Arkham."

He dipped the blade into the soft desert.

"I…have..s_ome_thing I **ne**e_eee_d…to do.."

"…For the Batman."

His hand tightened around the instrument.

"..Is that right?"

"A_lmo_st finished _now_." He shoved the scalpel into the cup and pierced the bottom.

"..Just..what are you finishing?"

The Joker pushed harder. The blade split the plastic further and started to dig into the hard aluminum tray. The pressure burst a few of the blisters on his knuckles, blood leaking through the poorly administered bandages. He watched it slide down into the cup…he remembered the first time he had seen the Bat bleed. It was a split lip.

From a lead pipe, he had swung carelessly at the caped crusader.

He had hit him a few more times, sending the Bat sprawled against the floor. The Joker pinned him, pressing the pipe against his throat. He was so close to him, he brushed against the budding bead, the redness smearing against the white across his chin…his tongue darted to taste…

Jonathan covered his head, cringing as the food, tray, and cart all went flying in various directions--the Joker kicking at his bed and chairs, screaming to high heaven--flicking sweat blood and god knows what else all over the room.

Crane lowered his hands, staring at the Joker, now looming over him again, scalpel still in hand. He opened his mouth, but the Clown was upon him, pinning him to his pillows, blade under his chin, knees trapping his only working leg.

"-_**Everything**_-." Crane winced as he growled so near his face, those wide, veiny eyes filling his vision. "Gotham is_ss_ going to, ah, be t_auuggghh_t a _**lesson**_…no one..in this CITY…will EVER…**EVER**…forge_t_…" He smacked his lips, and pressed the blade further into his skin, causing Jonathan to give a small pained noise. "Aaaand, once teacher is done with all of you, he'll pack up, turn out the lights…and…_BOOM_."

Crane grimaced as the Joker started another laugh--this one harsh and unfamiliar. He bit down on his tongue. He hadn't lost his hand to those teeth just yet…

"It wasn't fair, was it?" He blinked, choosing his words carefully, "Gotham. And their…their helpless civilians…police, and--Arkham…" The mad clown was silent. Encouraged, "They saw it happen with their own…own eyes…and you did not.."

He swallowed, and it hurt--the blade cutting deeper.

The Joker had every intention of slicing Crane's tongue out from under his chin, but…

The Scarecrow adjusted himself, moving his head a little further from the knife, in that soothing voice that matched his missing mask.

"…I would…be happy to talk about it…if you…want to…"

-------------------------------------

Gordon stepped into his office, gazing at his paper-covered desk and full coffee maker. Not one step closer. Not one day happier.

His family was injured.

His policemen were dying.

They couldn't move Tetch to county, they still hadn't fixed the…mess…at City Hall…

The Joker had an icy, unforgiving grip on all of them…he glanced out the window into a side office belonging to one Micheal Wuertz. A bulletin board hung quietly next to his desk, a small caption at the top, 'Possible Identities of Batman'. He himself had posted the picture of Bigfoot. Gordon only just noticed the black ribbon tacked to the top right corner of the board.

He wondered…had he been someone's father? Someone's husband? Someone's -son-? Was there a family somewhere, weeping over a secret memorial, missing the man behind the mask more than they were missing their hero?

It didn't matter now. He brushed a few papers off his desk and stared at a large, lightly detailed map of Gotham City. Whatever the Joker was planning, it was going to be on a large scale. They had to take every precaution they could…even if it meant a full-scale evacuation. He owed it to Gotham, Batman and himself…to try.

The door slammed open. Gordon turned, "Maria?"

"Sir--! It's the hospital!"

"What--??"

"It's the Joker, he's taken over three floors of the building---"

Gordon was out the door, Maria at his heels.

"I want that building SEALED--get out as many people as you can, he's not getting away---Bullock, take three teams and get over there--Maria I need you here with him--" He pointed towards the wide cage, wherein sat a short mad man, legs crossed, sipping a paper cup of water, no doubt pretending it was tea-- "Do not move from this spot, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Maria watched as Gordon rushed out the door, Bullock and the force behind them. She glanced at their now sparse guard on Tetch…a cold, hard feeling rising in her stomach.

------------------------------------

"…That time he used the ha**nd**cuffs…I was, hm---de-_ligh_-ted…to fiiind that they were Bat…shaped…too…"

Crane leaned his forehead into his hand, gazing at the painted face above him. He had only been talking for a few minutes, but Lucifer's cufflinks, did he wish he had a pen, and some blank paper. He was trying to commit everything he said to memory, to pick and slice apart later…if he lived that long.

The Joker had calmed, considerably. Much like a rabid cat injected with liquefied cat-nip, his eyelids drooped, his tone lowered and rumbled, and he pawed at a loose string on the Doctor's hospital gown as he babbled.

The last time he had talked about the Bat, he wanted to rip out his eyes and shove them in his ears. At this very small and simple moment in time, he just wanted to say his name over and over and over and over and over….

"He liked…to tie me u_**p**_…" Tightly. Wrist, ankles, knees--it cut into his skin when he moved, leaving delicious red slices that would rub against -everything-.

Crane nodded, with a light 'mm-hm'. The Joker wasn't really paying attention to him. He just wanted to talk…apparently. Crane remembered those ropes. Those--wires and metal rings, chafing and freezing his skin every time he dragged him back to Arkham. The aches and ouchies when he thrust him around, slamming from wall to wall…those gloved fingers squeezing his face…the same way the Joker had bruised his chin and neck…

He cleared his throat. Professional interest, of course. The Clown was far more savage than the reserved and moral Batman. It…mesmerized him. Professionally.

"..nd I held it…i_n_ my hands…"

The Doctor had been staring at his painted mouth, though he hadn't heard all he said. He inhaled, reminding himself of his -study-, eyes flicking to his.

"It?"

The Joker finally locked eyes with him again.

"_His face_."

Face…his first instinct was to pass it off as another scattered memory. But the conviction in the lunatic's voice gave him pause.

Then he remembered.

"…his face.." His eyes wandered over the smeared, caked make-up. There were streaks, leading from his eyes to his mouth and chin. Blood caked near his scalp. "It's broken."

Now, the good Doctor prided his intellect and sanity above most things. He considered himself superior in that fashion…not quite as much as one Edward Nigma, but enough. That said, for reasons unknown to himself, he lifted a hand and lightly brushed one of the red-covered scars.

It was only mili-seconds after he had done it he realized what he -had- done.

He paused and held his breath.

The Joker was not accustomed to gentle, or tender, or light. He knew vinegary, excruciating and raw. The finger was curious, and raised a curious question. Let it linger. Or bite it off.

There was a clatter at the door.

Both men turned to see a Hench clown standing there, mask pulled down, an empty can at his feet.

"..w-we're done…boss--got all the stuff y-you need…but--"

"But. _What_."

"They called the---they're on their--the cops, Boss, we--"

"_Get the van_."

Without another word, he ran off, calling for the guys to 'get the van'. The Joker licked his lips, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"…Time's up. Do**c**." He looked at the quiet body under him, head tilted. "I've, ahmm, got an appointment with an _old friend _down town."

The Clown lumbered off of him, somehow finding the will to stand again. Crane adjusted himself, scooting back up against his pillows, watching as the lunatic wandered to the doorway, kicking debris out of his path.

He turned his head, quipping airily over his shoulder, "Maybe I'll stop by…bring you some flowers. Hm?"

Crane sighed as quietly as he could, regaining most of his usual composure. He folded his hands, brow knitted, ever eternally put-upon. And shivered.

"If you're so moved, Joker."

And he was gone.

----------------------------------------

The sirens were echoing across the city. The news were on their way for sure, and the building was in a complete lockdown.

They were so far away.

Dr. Robert Meyerson, formally employed at Arkham Asylum, was fully dressed, attempting to fit his shoe over his swollen, bandaged sprained ankle. There were no doctors. No nurses. Nothing. He had hidden when the commotion came near his door, ripping his IV from his hand and ducking between his hospital bed and the wall. All right. He was a coward.

And it was time for him to flee.

The whole of Gotham was in trouble, and he wasn't sticking around to see it burn to the ground. He needed to get out of town. Jump the train, catch a plane, anything--anything to get as far away from the City gone mad. First he'd hit the bank. Empty his accounts. Stop to grab an extra suit, and leave. Metropolis was the best idea. Quiet, unassuming--new jobs--far away from the chaos and insanity that was the J--

"Hello, Do_ctor_. How are you feeling today?"

Meyerson turned, and there, in the doorway, silhouetted against the florescent lights outside his room…was the Clown. Arms folded behind his back, concealing a happy little surprise. He stepped into the room, deliberate in his step.

Meyerson lifted his hands in surrender, stepping away from his bed.

"…Joker…I-I understand…the pain you must be feeling after--"

"Y'know, Doc, I was thinking…" He stopped, freeing one hand to gesture, "…It was…_seven hours _and _forty-seven minutes _-after- it happened…that you pu_u_**u**lled me from the hole--and--" He stepped closer, "For the _nine minutes _and **seventeen seconds** you graced me, ahm, with your presence…you…said…**nothing**."

Meyerson pressed his back against the wall, lightly mopping his forehead. "I-I know the kind of--of devastation you must be feeling, but--"

The Joker was on him, fisting his shirt, pressing something hard, metal and round against his chest.

"DO YOU, Doc_tor_…PLEASE!" He shoved the man into his hospital bed, the object in his hand--a small silver tank--brandished like a club. "En_LIGHT_en **me** about my_self_…!!"

Robert Meyerson couldn't stop his tears, lifting a hand to defend himself, pleading, "For Godsakes, have--have--you can't--"

The tank went flying across his face, and the doctor spat a few teeth across the room. Disoriented, he barely noticed the Joker pushing him down onto the bed.

"Why the lo**oon**g fa_ce_, Doc…" Planting his knee in his stomach, the Joker freed his hands to twist the double knobs on the tank. "Do you like, ahm, nursery rhymes..?"

Meyerson tried to speak and lifted his hands lamely as a mask covered his mouth and nose.

"Deedle deedle dumpling, my son _John_--" The Joker twisted the knobs again, "Went to _bed_ with his _**trousers**_ on!" Meyerson started to struggle, recognizing the sour taste of the gas. "One shoe **OFF**!" The clown pressed down on his stomach, "One shoe **ON**!" The doctor's eyes fluttered as he tried to desperately hold on to that reality. "Deedle _**DEED**_LE dum_**p**_ling…my..son…_**John**_…"

Meyerson giggled. He chortled and cackled--he gasped deeply and laughed even louder, unable to stop his heaving breaths. Satisfied, the Joker let go of the mask and tank, giggling as he stumbled out of the room. He locked the door with a click, the rest of the gas quickly filling the room, Meyerson's helpless guffawing behind it.

Wandering by the nurse's station, he lifted a bottle of sanitizer and a small glass dish filled with individually wrapped candies.

One more stop to make.

----------------------------

"Sweep the entire building, I want him found, do you understand me?!"

Gordon stood outside of Saint Mary's Hospital, a radio in hand, and a full blockade of police cars behind him. The SWAT teams had just gone in, headed for the second floor. There was no way he could have gotten out. He told himself that. He had to still be in there.

He listened to the crackle over the radio. More bodies, horribly mangled. The survivors were rushed out as quickly as they could be. There were Arkham inmates there. Numbers of them. And some of them had already escaped.

"--_Coming to Crane's room, over_.--"

"Is he there?" He released the button on his radio and waited.

Nothing.

"…Is he there?!"

"---_We got him, sir. He's here_."

Gordon exhaled, relief flooding him.

"--_He says the Clown was here_."

Gordon sputtered lightly, and held down the button, "What do you mean, 'was'?! Make him tell you where he IS!"

-------------------------

Maria stared at the clock. It's hands moved slowly, the light tick-tick-ticking echoing in the nearly quiet office. There were twelve of them left, scattered about the rooms. Six of them kept a silent vigil next to the cage that held the Hatter. Maria watched him.

He leaned leisurely against the bars, one hand held flat, the other lifting a paper cup to his lips. With a contented sigh, he placed the cup against his flat hand. He was left in his trousers, suspenders and oddly large shoes. Everything else taken from him was filled with machines and nano-technology. She didn't understand half of what the lab guys had sent to them, but it all pointed to some really, really bad stuff. Maria was new on the force. Truthfully, she had only seen the Bat once when he was alive. She was headed to the roof to find Gordon. There had been a burglary that night of a rare golden statue, an Egyptian artifact on loan from the Metropolis History Museum. There had been a sighting of the thief as they disappeared with the cat effigy.

She had raised a hand to knock on the metal door, and happened to catch sight of the dark figure through the small window. Her first instinct was to call the alarm. Weeks of 'if you see the Batman' schlock had really been run home. But she didn't. She watched. He and commissioner were talking…just talking…then, he turned towards the window and she felt herself jump. Jim turned as well, she looked at him, and when she looked back to Batman…he was gone.

Since then, Maria, Harvey, and Jim became a little more tight knit. Wuertz being out for his health, she tentatively filled his spot. Thus why she was babysitting the nut job with the tea fetish. She swallowed, listening to him murmur about…blue dresses and black ribbons.

She hated him.

She had interrogated him a dozen times, and every time it was rabbits, bread crumbs and pocket watches. Her fists tightened. Or little girls.

The Hatter glanced her way.

--------------------------

The streets were filled with spinning lights as squad car after squad car raced through Gotham.

An ambulance wailed behind them.

There was no time.

--------------------------

"…You know it isn't POLITE…to STARE, Mary Anne."

She rubbed her eyes, willing the tiredness from her body.

"Keep it down, Tetch."

"Down? Down? Goose down!" He chortled. "You really shouldn't have taken my hat, you know."

A few of the officers stirred by the door. Was that the elevator?

"And why not, Tetch."

"It was my favorite you know."

"So what."

"Sew buttons!"

-------------------------------

Gordon yelled into the ear of a helmeted driver, slipping a full cartridge into his gun.

They weren't going fast enough.

---------------------------------

Maria stood, stepping over to the bars, "Another word, Tetch, and it's not just water going down that throat. It'll be my fist." All right, she was no Harvey Bullock. She was working on it.

"..De…Detective Maza?"

All the officers stood near the windows, guns pointed. There were shadows behind the blinds of the office. Tall, bulky, club-wielding shadows. Maria stood, mouth opening.

There was a scratching at the door.

Light, deliberate scratching.

She froze.

"…He's not at the hospita--"

The glass shattered.

None of them had time to pull a trigger.

---------------------------------

Tires screeched as they skidded outside Gotham holding. Gordon was out of his car before it had stopped, gun in hand, Harvey at his heels. They raced up the stairs, calling orders, the SWAT team rushing behind them.

He couldn't breathe.

---------------------------------

The lock clicked home, and Maria struggled lamely against the handcuffs. Her cheeks were an explosion of pain, her ankles zip-tied to the bars behind her body. The men around her moaned and twisted on the tile at her feet.

The phone.

Someone had to get the phone.

Tell Gordon.

Tell someone…

She whined as something was stuck into her skin. Her chest hurt, it hurt so much--it felt so heavy…so thick.

Her ears stopped ringing then, and she opened her eyes to find the Joker, leaning over her torso, humming a tune under his breath.

Tetch was behind him. Bound in red cloth, gagged and struggling.

Maria tried to speak.

"Hiiii…" He murmured, narrowing his eyes at the face of the clock in front of him. He turned the small green hand and it click-click-clicked until he was satisfied. They took so much longer than _he_ did. Useless. He locked eyes with Maria, taking a small pot from his pocket.

"I…want _you_…to help.._me_…to help..**you**…to help -_**me**_-…" He gripped a thick tendril of her hair, pulling her face near his. "'H_mn_?" His ungloved finger tapped the device hanging off her chest.

Maria gasped in pain, and glanced down at the large, blackish thing, covered in wires. It was hooked into her collarbone…and from the stinging further down, her ribs.

"Tell…_Gordon_…a little s_ome_th**ing** for me…" He dipped his thumb into the pot. "_Could you do that_?" He smeared a long streak of paint across her mouth.

"I can, ahm, coun_**t **_on _you_…can't I, swee_**t**_fa_**ce**_."

---------------------------------

The door from the stairwell went flying off it's hinges, the SWAT team running in, Gordon quickly passing them.

He saw the broken glass, the busted windows and doors. Gun raised, he ran. The SWATs yelled something in his ear. He didn't care.

He could still be in there.

They could still be alive.

He tripped over broken wood and glass, arms stretched, inching around the edge of the doorway, listening…

"Oh, God…Maria…"

Gordon stumbled over bodies and debris, holstering his gun. Her arms were spread, handcuffed to the cage, her ankles similarly hindered. Her chest was bleeding. There were hooks digging into her, right under her neck. He lifted his hands, helplessly staring at the device strapped to her chest. She panted and whimpered, a red smile drawn on her bruised face. She swallowed.

"Sir…Jim, I'm-I'm so sorry…"

"Don't say that, Maria--it's it--I'm going to get you out of this--" He turned, "BOMB SQUAD, in here!"

"We're gonna get that shit off you, Maria, It's okay--" Bullock stuttered, overcome with panic.

"They can't--he said they couldn't--" She sniffled, pulling at the restraints on her wrists. "Sir--"

"It's all right, Maria…you're going to be all right, I promise--" He locked eyes with her, shaking, hoping against hope, "I promise."

A tear slid down her cheek as a thunder of footfalls echoed behind him. The clock was ticking. She knew it was almost finished.

"It's been--It's been an honor--it…" She swallowed again as the ticking accelerated, "Oh God--"

"Over here!!" Gordon turned and waved frantically to rush the group of de-activators.

"Jim--Jim he said--he said I had to tell you--we have--have a week…a week before--"Maria looked down at her chest as the crooked purple hand reached the top of the clock.

The ticking stopped.

Gordon turned back to Maria and stared at the clock.

"Jim!" He raised his eyes to her.

"_Run_."

It was Harvey Bullock that yanked Jim Gordon from their friend, and rushed him away. Gordon could hear him yelling for everyone to flee and duck. He could only stumble, his hand outstretched for their comrade.

Maria felt something whir inside the device. She hiccupped.

_I'm scared_.

The explosion rocked the street, over turning a few hydrants and sending a few bystanders to their knees. Inside the precinct, Gordon was covered by an overturned desk, Bullock next to him in a daze. As he shakily climbed to his feet, he watched as thousands of singed and dirty playing cards fluttered to the ground.

He gazed at the few settled by his ankle, a message scrawled in thick purple marker.

'_**See you soon'**_.

-------------------------------

In loving memory of Detective Maria Maza.

Next time: Who am I? What am I doing here?

R&R, dearingest of darlings! I await with bated breath. :3


	7. Count Down

Hello darlings! Did you miss me? It's been a long time, too long, but here we go again. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for your continuing support on this fic, it's the only reason it's being updated. You guys are amazing. As a small aside, I was wondering if I should go back and revamp my first six chapters. Content will stay the same, just a little clean-up here and there. What do you guys think?

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. If I did own it, believe you me…the gay would blow your mind.

...

Chapter 7: What is In a Name

...

"Tell me something, Commissioner…"

_Overcast City. Empty parks and playgrounds. Barely a passing car. No one wanders the streets, unless they have nowhere else to go. Too unsafe to walk them now. Windows shut and bolted. Lights turned low. Televisions flickering in the bluish day, the watchers hoping, praying, that their terror will end soon. Businesses close. Schools shut down. Steadily, loudly, the City starts to die. Lights go out, one by one-the glittering buildings snuffing out, becoming nothing more than tall, black tombstones in the graveyard that is Gotham._

"Just…how **guil**ty do you feel when…civilians _die_."

_A woman sits on a park bench. Before her is a pile of twisted, searing metal. Broken glass litters the concrete, and flashing lights flicker across her pale face. There is a long spill of blood near her corner, where the tall traffic light is planted into the street. Steadily, it flashes from red to green. Red to green. Red to green. She turns her eyes to watch it. A blue, tattered leash clutched in her hands._

"Do you cry yourself to sleep some nights, Jim?"

_Four wives and mothers of the same last name sit in a crowded waiting room. Every so often, they shift to glance at a tall, cream-colored door. It's smooth metal sign reads, "Morgue". All are missing their husbands-who worked at the same water treatment plant. All were contacted to identify a body, with a matching last name. It's far too mangled otherwise. And it's teeth are missing._

"Do you cry at all."

_A child crawls through the wreckage of her school. Her classmates stumble nearby, none of them stopping to check if their teacher is alive. She lies, mangled, under the rubble. Quietly, they huddle together near the flagpole. The stars and stripes lay tattered by their tiny bodies. Muted thuds quake the listing pole above their heads, as their hanging Principal twists in the wind._

"And if your _family_ were the bodies under the debris…would you feel more responsible. Or…would you…_blame_…_everyone_..._**else**_…"

_The televisions are never off now. Every person in Gotham, holding onto the smoke of hope. Someone will come. Someone will stop him. Someone…someone will save them…_

"Do you know what loss feels like, Jim? Should I show you..?"

Click.

James Gordon stared at the tape recorder in his hand. The force was crowded around him, silent, tense. It was the fifth of its kind since the explosion. No clues. No bomb taunts. Just words. Words, and then…something unspeakable would happen. There was no pattern. No punch line, only carnage and tears. Bullock took the liberty of sending a few squad cars to Gordon's home-all hand-picked, people they could trust. That was all they could do.

Gordon sent the tape to forensics to see what they could dig up. He was less than optimistic. He called his wife, talked to his children. Barbara asked how he was holding up. If the clean-up was going well at the station. Their temporary location wasn't much-a vacant floor in a neighboring building. He stood by his bare desk and watched the rush of the room. He knew what they were thinking. He could see it in their faces.

Nearly a full week.

Two more days to the Joker's deadline. More street sweeps. Poorly planned raids and searches. Tearing up Gotham sewers and slums. And they were always thirty seconds too late. His arm ached.

Harvey Bullock watched the Commissioner out of the corner of his eye. He was almost positive the man had started sleeping at his desk every night. Then again, none of the force got any sleep these days. What was left of them. He glanced near the windows, where a table was carefully set up.

It was simple. It was even nice, for an office full of morons, anyway. A small bunch of flowers, a frame tied with black ribbon. Little white paper cards, scrawled with rough hand writing. And there, in gold letters, below her smiling face, 'In Loving Memory'. There were a bunch of those small set-ups all over the office, but hers stood out the most. To Harvey, that is.

Harvey always liked Maria. She was a good kid, and one hell of a cop. They had gotten pretty attached to her, he and Jim. Even the Bat had noticed her more than once. Harvey sighed. He hid behind his desk. A clear evidence bag glared back at him, filled with purple-marked playing cards.

Fuck.

It was all falling apart.

...

"You don't like clowns?"

The older boy at his side leaned over his hands. The Man who was nearly a man had been staring rather hard at the candy-wrapper in his fingers. The candy itself was gone, having been split among his young company. The wrapper was white, dirty, with bright red lettering across the middle. Then, at one end, a smiling clown figure sat, its red mouth grinning, black eyes shining, as it gestured towards a deliciously animated picture of chocolate.

"…I don't know." He smoothed out the wrapper for the hundredth time, the red-lipped figure still grinning happily.

"I don't." The youngest leaned into his elbow, eying the wrapper. "They're creepy."

There was something about the word. Clown. It pinpricked his chest, like a hundred knife tips. And if he tried to think about it further, the blades just pushed in. It hurt. But why couldn't he will it from his thoughts?

The Man was not quite back into the world yet. The two boys had been a great help in his cognitive faculties, as evidenced by the fact he knew the word cognitive and could use it in a full sentence. He knew…well, a lot. He understood many things he wasn't sure how he came to know. Like how to scale a building and steal a lunchbox from an oblivious teenager sitting on a fire escape. Time had pieced much of his memory back together, in regards to things that were and needed no explanation. Only recently, he had started to question the whys and wherefores.

And there were some things he _knew_ he knew, but couldn't touch. He adjusted the wrapper in his hand. Like this clown.

"…What's your name, Mister?" The youngest rested his chin on the man's forearm.

"I don't know."

"Where'd you come from?" The older sat back.

"I don't know."

"Well, y'came from somewhere. What if we look?" The younger craned his head to look at the older boy.

"Look where? Doesn't matter if he can't remember nothing."

The man lightly traced the figure of the clown with his finger. The younger stood, brushing dirt from his hands.

"That's why we look. Maybe he'll see something and remember—like in the movies."

"You never seen a movie in your life."

The older boy stood, brushing down his pant legs.

"Still a better idea'thn anything you'd think." The younger turned towards the man. "You wanna?"

The man's finger hovered over the red smiling mouth. Broken glass. White tile. Something red. Something purple. Something green. His eyes flicked upwards to the boys.

"…I'd like to go somewhere." He stood, folding the wrapper and slipping it into his pocket. The youngest took his hand. The older did the same.

"You remember something?"

The man only nodded, and with the boys in tow, he left their small shelter under the overpass and headed into the city.

…..

"Let me…ask. You something."

Muslin curtains wafted gently to his right, catching on jagged edges of broken glass. The only real sound left in the room. A page would flutter in the breeze from the over-turned books nearby, a bit of wood from the broken furniture would settle every so often, a light bulb would weakly pop to life for a few moments and fizzle out; but other than that, it was silent. The easy chair creaked as he shifted his weight.

"…do you like chocolate?"

He folded his hands, a blister straining between his thumb and forefinger.

"I'm not a _fan_…of chocolate. Ah…I'm more of a NECCOs kinda guy." He tilted his head, looking through his eyebrows. "Do you remember NECCOs? Came in, ah—that wa_x_ paper, and-and covered in, I think—powered sugar or soh—I…used to love…NECCOs."

He made a weak gesture, eyes trailing to the dark-streaked carpet. They made a sound when you removed them from the packaging, like a porcelain whisper when you scraped the fragile little disks together. You could really grind your teeth into them. Like glass.

"It-it—never..TOLD you…what color corresponds with what flavor, it—just let you guess. Hm?" He blinked across from him, tongue sliding over the thick flesh on his lip. "Like a surprise. It—it even faked you out—with the pink ones, because they were—_aha_—they were MINT. Flavored."

He blinked expectantly at the form on the couch across from him.

"The green ones taste like soap."

Glassy eyes stared unseeing at his face. Red hair splayed behind the still head, an arm bent over the back of the couch, the legs extended towards him—white skin disappearing under a tweed grey skirt.

He moved his eyes to her right.

"You know what I'm talking about."

Another pair of eyes gazed towards the ceiling, the neck a red mess of flesh and ooze—disappearing into a once crisp white collared shirt and tie. Blood dripped mutely from the man's hand onto a drying puddle in the carpet.

"It was…variety. In-in its _simplest_ form. That—THAT—I could always get behind. Variety. Choices." He scratched at the open sores above his collarbone, picking at the hard crispy spots. "They—they didn't even put an equal number of flavors—in the package, it was always…"

He looked at his glove—white smeared on the fingertips, and yellow tinted crust clinging to the paint. He swallowed, the lump still firmly in place, and scratched again.

"Dif_fer_ent."

The blue light of the overcast day glowed through the shattered windows. A pigeon fluttered onto the fire escape, it's wings batting furiously as it landed. The light caught it's shadow, the spread wings appearing briefly across the floor. He turned over his shoulder to look at it, the sound resonating in his ears, playing over and over like a skipping record, flap flap flap flap flap flap _flap flap flap flap_.

He palmed the gun in his lap and lifted it towards the window.

"Like a bruise."

The pigeon hit the grate of the escape with an echoing thud. The shot, muffled by the silencer, barely heard in the still gently blowing winds.

"Don't stay for long, either. Eat the wafers. Heal the skin." He sucked on his tooth, white, black and red dripping onto the already stained lapels of his vest. "_Fun_ny. Isn't it."

Heavy footfalls echoed in the hallway. Three bodies hesitated outside, shifting in their workboots. One of them warily stuck his head in the doorway, pulling his mask to his neck.

"Boss, we did the—"

The back of his head burst in a shower of skull and meat, and the body slumped to the floor.

The Joker stood, back cracking loudly as he checked the cartridge in his gun.

"I was HAVING. A conver_SATION_."

The two remaining goons swallowed, not daring to inch in the doorway.

A moment passed. Two shots hit the wall of the hallway, plaster bursting.

"**WHAT**."

"We—we got the place you wanted, it's—it's secure! And the stu—the stuff, it's ready, in the tru—"

Another shot hit the wall.

"GET MOVING."

The henchclowns took off, their lumbering steps echoing down the hall and stairs. The Joker sighed, savagely rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. The water still wouldn't stop. It didn't matter now. It was almost time to close the show.

"Some people…" He stepped around the broken coffee table coming to the side of the couch. "Sorry to cut this visit…short. But, ah—" He stepped around it and leaned down to the heads resting on the cushions. "I gotta tell you…_great listening skills_."

A gloved hand patted the shoulder of one of the bullet ridden corpses before he stepped away towards the door. It was so nice of them to let him use their apartment for the afternoon. The hideout had so little room due to the numerous crates that were, up until recently, piled there. He slipped a hand into his pocket, looking down at the body in the doorway. He nudged it with his foot and stepped into the tope-colored hallway. This game was played. Enough buildings blown to bits, enough crashing cars and slaughtered bureaucrats. Enough play. For a while, it had been fun. He had smiled once or twice, twisting the knife—smearing his happy compound into too-sad faces.

He tapped the barrel of the gun against his temple, leisurely heading for the stairwell.

It felt like _then_.

For one shining second.

The Joker's eyes rolled upwards, the strain stinging his leaking neck. He glanced over his shoulder at the hall. The open doors he had passed creaked quietly in the hall—the smears of blood over their thresholds ignored, as well as the steaming grinning bodies that lie therein. A hand laid unmoving by his foot, fingers dug into linoleum, the body half-dragged out of the apartment—_brave little soldier_—eyes white and bulging, face red and stretched over the teeth.

"I hope you know your lines, Jimbo."

The Joker turned and started down the stairs. Lights down. Curtain up.

…

"I don't like it here."

It was a long, pale, unmarred slab of cement. Spotted by rain and workmen's boots, perhaps, but otherwise untouched.

"..Can we go soon?"

It was near an overpass, buzzing with cars and trucks. The dull roar of downtown echoing across the surrounding buildings. The foundation stretched before them was so new. So clean. So...out of place.

The Man who was nearly a man stood before a newly built-upon piece of property. He was unsure why his tired feet had led him and his small companions to this odd corner of 52nd St. He didn't know what he had been looking for. But looking out upon that vacant place made his chest ache.

Our Man left the hands of the two young boys and walked steadily across the bright concrete. The cloudy, gray sky seemed to give the foundation a kind of eerie glow. He knew why it was there, why there were small, rickety sheds nearby, why there was a large mixing thing for the dried cement under his feet. The carelessly placed shovels, abandoned bright yellow helmets and orange vests. And as he gazed across the silent, vacant, lifeless slabs...it wasn't right. There was smoke, something told him. Bricks. Something fragile, and soft inside. He touched his forehead, a searing pain throbbing behind his eyes.

It was wrong. It was all just so wrong.

A tiny hand on his pant leg pulled him back into the present. He gazed down into the worried faces of his companions. The youngest tugged again on the black material.

"Can we go?"

The Man who was nearly a man nodded, and took his small hand. As they walked away from the quiet, sad place, the older boy took his other hand. The younger boy swung his hand once.

"Do you have a name now?"

"No."

"Oh."

They walked further. This part of the city was still quiet. The glassy city before them was loud and wide.

"Where are we going now?"

"...somewhere else."

"Like this place?"

"Yes."

The youngest leaned closer as they came to a cross walk.

"Is it far away?"

"...maybe."

They stepped onto the curb. A siren wailed somewhere in the downtown. He paused, staring upwards.

"Do you think we'll find it there?...Mister?"

He stared at the gray, listless clouds above them. The smog in his mind thinning for a moment...

"...I don't know. "

…...

"Commissioner!" Dawlings, bandaged head and all, came trotting up to Gordon at his desk. "The guys—forensics, they want to talk to you right away, they said they found something on the tape."

Gordon near threw the file in his hand onto his desk and hurried to follow the young officer. His gut churned—was this a clue, a slip up, or another plant from the clown? Was this something he wanted his boys to find? A taunt, a threat, or nothing at all?

"Sir?!"

Gordon skidded to a stop when a small hand snatched his coat.

"What is it Donna—"

"We just got a call—some apartment building, a woman came home and—sir, the place is gutted, all the residents that were home—they're dead, sir, even the landlord—"

His stomach dropped out.

"Harvey! Where is it—HARVEY—get a team, you need to get to," He grabbed up the notepad from the desk and glanced at it. "To 3012 Sycamore, lower East, there's been another attack—Donna, get the names of all the residents—Harvey, make sure no one goes near the damn building until you clear it, understood?" He pushed the pad into Bullock's hands. "See to the surrounding residences, ask if anyone saw anything, hear me, ANYTHING."

Gordon watched the detective rush off, yelling orders to the room. As he turned to follow Dawlings again, something sick curled inside his chest. They still had two days, but he felt it. The clown was building towards one hell of a spectacle.

…

"The guy that killed my dad was sent here."

The Man who was nearly a man startled from his thoughts. He turned from his crouched position to the older boy standing beside him. This part of the city was barely rebuilt. It seemed, to Gotham's judgment, they should just keep expanding somewhere else and let this section dissolve into another lower slum. How he knew that, and understood it in a bitter sense, was lost on the man. It was a fragmented fact. The skeletal building loomed above them, dark in the dimming light. The boy shifted on his feet, frowning at the flaking bricks.

"…what's here?"

The boy shrugged.

"Nothing now. They have a new one, across the city. This was the old one, before all that crazy stuff happened." He kicked a piece of concrete across the sidewalk. "I thought he should-a gone to jail."

"They said he was crazy, tho'." The younger boy sat nearby in a patch of yellow grass, picking clumps of it. "They put crazy people in there."

"He wasn't crazy," The older boy twisted his mouth, crossing his arms. "I dunno what he was, he killed my dad."

The man turned his eyes back to the broken structure. Crazy. He knew that word. He knew that word, and it rang in his brain like metal on a chalkboard. It hurt in his chest and his legs and arms, and pulled him towards the periphery again—where something was standing in the dark. Hunched and red and purple and painful. Some_one_. Someone, someone, someone—

"He got mom too. I dunno how, but he did. Someone else did it, but it was him."

The man stood, wiping dirt from his hands. The older boy beside him stared at the ground, arms tight around his chest. His black hair twitched in the breeze, ruffling the worn, filthy clothes on his wiry frame. The man lifted a hand to him. The boy glanced upwards. His brow was pinched, his jaw set like granite, and his eyes burned.

It hit the man's chest like a _bullet_.

That same pain returned behind his eyes. A little boy. Littler. Smaller. More red and black bricks, a dimly illuminated poster—_pearls_.

"..Mister." He jumped at the sound.

"…can we go now."

He looked down into the angry young face again, images of opalescent jewels bouncing over dirty concrete reeling in his mind. He turned his face to the broken building.

"Yes. We can go."

The younger boy hopped up from his place in the dirt and rushed to take the man's hand again. The older boy walked stiffly beside them as they crossed the street. The younger pulled on his hand.

"Do you have a name yet?"

"No. Not yet."

The older boy kicked a brick out of his path.

"Do you remember _anything_."

"…Yes."

The boys stilled in the street, the youngest turning wide eyes to him.

"…My parents died too."

The older boy glared at the ratty coat the man wore.

"But you're old. So they were old, and old people die."

"I wasn't old when they died."

The breeze blew a balled piece of newspaper by their feet. The youngest leaned into the man, still holding his hand tightly. The older boy shifted, glaring across the street at the old building. He took the Man's hand and quickly wiped his eyes.

"Where we going now."

"Somewhere else." He started their trek again, the streets before him becoming clearer in the fog. He knew them. He knew where to go. Somewhere dark. Somewhere sad, so very very sad. Somewhere he always went. He stopped at the corner, looking at the dark building one last time.

"What's it called."

"That place?"

"That's Arkham. Where they put the crazy people. Arkham Asylum."

….

"Fish oil." Gordon flipped the paper in his hand, fixing the two lab techs in front of him with hard stares. "Fish oil? You're sure?"

"As far as we can tell—traces of greasepaint, gunpowder—"

"We cross-referenced the paint with samples we have—it's his, that's no doubt."

"Then he's somewhere on the water, the warf, most likely a cannery." He pushed the paper at Dawlings. "I want as many men as we can spare, we're going to canvas the waterfront one section at a time. Are you sure there isn't anything else?"

"Right now, no," The young blond tech turned to his work table where another tech was working to gingerly remove the crudely taped label from the black cassette. "The audio is single layered and clean, there's nothing else on the tape. We're only just starting deconstruction, and we'll keep you updated if there's anything else here."

"Fine—thank you—" Gordon turned, a hand on Dawling's shoulder as he steered him towards the door. "This takes precedence. You get Detective Bullock back here as soon as possible—"

Behind him, the tech had peeled nearly the entire label off the tape, turning it upwards and glancing underneath.

"—empty ones first, they're the priority—"

"Uh—commissioner?"

"—We only have thirty-seven hours to do this in, and I want it—"

"Commissioner!"

Gordon turned in the doorway, the tech at the table holding up the label with long, thin tweezers. The underside was scrawled in purple ink.

Gordon near toppled the table over in his rush over, yelling for the tech to put it down. The writing was shaky, barely legible, but he could make out numbers, a street. And a name.

"Hemmingway. Hemming—Ernest and Co., Dawlings—" He caught the young lieutenant's shoulder, near running towards the door, "Get Bullock now, alert SWAT, and get me a vest—tell them, it's Ernest and Co. fish cannery, check the street address, make sure it's same one on the tape—"

The two policemen rushed out, Gordon pulling the radio from his belt to scramble the boys upstairs. Please. Let them have a chance. God, what were they walking into.

…

His feet dangled over the lip of the truck bed, the toes of his shoes high above the black asphalt. Bodies rushed past him, carting barrels and boxes and things, voices—_hushed, no one wanted to disturb while he still had a finger on the trigger_—floated around him from the goons at work.

His eyes had been brown. Or maybe green. Like his own. No, that wasn't right. They weren't like that at all—most of the time. They were speckled and moving, like water—they weren't blue, oh no, not blue. Dark and sandy. Pupils often blown wide in the spaces of the mask. Hot breath on his chin. Those precious times he had been so close. He tapped the barrel of the gun against his temple again, the skin irritated and pricking there under his hair. The ungloved hand lifted the hard, black cowl to his face.

Maybe brown.

The Clown gazed upwards at the quickly darkening sky.

"Don't be l_ate_, Jim."

….

This too had fallen into the new slums of the city. The structure stood strong, as well as its surrounding buildings, the only light coming from flickering street lamps. The place had long been closed, once a glittering jewel—now a hard relic, like a tombstone, resting between open graves. The sign still had a few letters clinging to its surface. The windows of the box office were yellow, but intact. The doors were boarded and defaced with spray paint.

"Why'd you wanna come _here_?"

The older boy shuffled in place, hands in his dirty jacket pockets, staring upwards at the street sign still dutifully bolted to the brick corner of the building. The younger boy stuck by his side, staring nervously down the mostly deserted street.

"I don't like it here, Mister."

…..

The sirens wailed through the city, car after car rushing through the streets, headed for the water front. Gordon buckled the vest tightly to his chest, shouting directions to the lieutenant in the driver's seat. He tossed his sling onto the seat beside him, wincing at the movement in his lower arm. Bullock stared stone-faced at him across the van. He hadn't wanted Jim to come, but fuck all if the commish would ever listen to him.

They were nearly there.

…..

Those familiar wails pushed the Clown to stand again. He cradled the black thing to his chest, waving his gun at a few henchclowns to get to where they needed to be. He glanced at the precious thing in his hand again.

Not brown. Maybe gold. Golden, specked and bright—he was sure they had been once.

He kicked a door open and strode unsteadily across the empty lot. The truck's wheels screamed against the concrete behind him as it peeled out of the building.

And gray. They had been gray too. He sighed. Variety.

…

The Man stared down the shadowed pavement, the wind blowing through, carrying pungent smells of rot and urine. With a breath, he stepped into the alley. The boys hovered uncertainly at the corner. Why had he come here. Because he had to. Because he needed to. He turned his eyes to the sign. The original name was all but blocked out. In its stead were two words scrawled in red. 'CRIME ALLEY'. Because this is where it started.

….

The patrol cars came to rough halts outside of the Ernest & Co. Cannery, the SWAT trucks peeling in behind them. Gordon near leapt out of the van with Bullock, waving his officers to spaces between and behind the cars, barking at the SWAT men to hold their positions—

Bullock stood beside the commissioner, gun drawn, staring upwards at the long-closed fishing plant, chewing savagely on his lip. Fuck. Fuck, this doesn't feel right. Nothing about this feels right, why would the Clown just tell him where he was, nothing about this was right, nothing about this was good, fuck fucking fuck fuck fuck.

"Jim—Jim, I gotta bad feelin' about—"

"I know, Harvey." Jim sighed harshly beside him, eyes glued to the structure before them. Another beat. He raised his arm to signal the SWAT team—

Shots rang out. From the building. Two boys in blue went down. More shots came, ricocheting off the cars. Bullock dove to the ground, shoving Gordon down with him. Gordon swore, yelling for SWAT to move in, other officers returning fire towards the windows where the shots had come from.

Bullock pushed off the ground and rushed with SWAT and the other detectives headed for the building before Jim could get to his feet.

…

The air was cold and foul. Barely any light shined from the street to the closed space between the buildings. The pavement was filthy, garbage, dirt and paper strewn every which way. There was nothing there. No marker. No clue. No leading moniker to help him understand why he needed to come to this place so badly. He glanced at the dark brick surrounding him. Pearls bounced through his mind again. Pearls. And popcorn.

…...

"Harvey-!" Too late. Bullock was already inside. "Shit." Jim crouched by his car, gun in hand. Bullock did it on purpose, he knew it, he damn well knew it, to keep Jim outside as senior official, goddamn him. He ducked down as a bullet shot through the window of the van. He checked his gun and lifted his radio to his ear, the SWAT team leader reporting over a heavy crackle.

"—_two hostiles—neutralized. Front rooms secure. Entering the factory floor__._"

"Keep your eyes open, Tetch may be held hostage." He glanced over his shoulder—some of the SWAT had stayed behind, shooting at the top windows where the other shots were coming from. One of them shifted closer to his back.

"_Roger. Two more hostiles—" the feed cut out briefly, "Neutralized. Proceeding to the second landing._"

A body hit the ground next to Jim—bleeding out of a hole in his cheek.

"Focus on the gunman, do you hear me?! Take him out!" Gordon moved round the grate of the van and fired a few rounds at the windows. The radio crackled again, but the words were lost under the sound of gun fire. Jim ducked back behind the van again, taking up the radio.

"Say again, team leader." Another crackle, some garbled words. "Team leader, do you copy?"

The radio popped in and out, but a few words came in clear as day. Gunman—bodies—Joker.

…..

The Man pressed a hand against the brick wall, a sharp pain rippling through his forehead and down his neck. He could hear them—the pearls, hitting the pavement, every bead like an explosion in his ears. He heard a voice—a woman calling, saying a name—an arm around him, pulling him back. A strong, hard palm pressed against his chest, pushing him further back, warm and safe and big—

...

"—Do you have him?!" Gordon dared to look over the nose of the van, his arm aching painfully, sweat pouring off his forehead. "Damn it, answer me, did you find the Joker?!"

A hard kick landed against his lower back. Jim hit the van in front of him, chin smacking hard against the side. Another hit from the barrel of a gun sent him sprawling to the ground.

…

He had been staring down the barrel of a gun. A hand had taken hold of the necklace around her thin throat and pulled. The gems hit his shoes and trickled into a muddy puddle. She had pulled him back. He had blocked them with his body, and in a loud crack, he had fallen to the pavement with the gems. Then she had too.

And he crumpled to his knees, just as he did then so many years ago, hugging his arms, staring at the place their bodies had laid. Tears flooded down his cheeks. His nails bit into the concrete. Sirens wailed in his ears, calling him, telling him to go. Mother. Father.

Martha. Thomas.

Wayne.

…

Black edged his vision. Sound was muted, gunshots thudding over his head. He turned, seeing bleary figures dropping to the ground—his men—his men were dying—black clad figures standing over them, shooting bodies repeatedly.

There was one standing over him, idly dropping his gun to the side. He couldn't see. He hurt. Then sound rushed back, just barely, and the radio crackled by his ear.

"—it's not him—it's a decoy, wearing the Joker's suit—repeat, we have not secured the Joker, repeat—"

The radio was kicked away. The figure crouched down by Jim, the visor illuminated by the flashing patrol lights.

Just before he was lifted and thrown into the bed of a truck, he saw him smile. The red lips stretching across orange colored teeth.

…..

"I'm very sorry to inform you that Mr. Wayne is preparing to leave the city..."

A cloudy, bubbly streak slid down the clear, smooth glass. The ice shifted inside, melting, unnoticed by the man holding it, staring from the couch.

"...Very soon. I am unsure when he will be returning...No, he has requested that none of these messages be forward while he is away. I will deliver them upon his return."

He hung up the phone without another word. The television was on, the volume turned very low. Pictures of dead cops kept flashing by the screen—a very angry Detective Bullock shoving through news crews and into a black patrol van.

Lucius finally placed the glass on the end table. Alfred came up behind him, eyes red-ringed. A tear slid down his weathered cheek. Lucius turned to look at him, mouth open. He couldn't will himself to speak.

All Alfred could think of were the faces in the portrait that now hung in the front hall. A recreation of a painting that had been destroyed when the mansion burnt down. Of a mop-headed little boy with crooked teeth smiling from under his mother's hands.

"…I'm so sorry."

Gordon was gone. The clock was winding down.

A sound startled both men. A door, sweeping open, cracking loudly against the marble wall behind it. Alfred shared a wordless look to Lucius, and stumbled to the main foyer.

"Alfred."

Two boys, scraggly and thin, wandered into the doorway, eyes wide with fascination. Upon seeing the older man, they stepped backwards—two strong hands closing securely over their shoulders.

He was dirty. He was shaking. There were tracks down his face, and the coat around his shoulders hung off in tatters. As he ushered the boys further in, he tracked mud and muck across the flooring—but his shoulders were locked and firm. His head was high, and his eyes burned like a man arisen from hell.

Alfred only stared, mouth opened, hundreds of words trapped in his tongue.

Bruce stepped between the boys, coming to stand feet from the older man.

"Tell me what I need to do."

…..

Welcome home, Bruce.

Next time: Are you ready for the big Finale?

R&R darlings. I promise I'll be back for real this time!


End file.
